


Kiss the Cook

by TooSel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Blow Jobs, Cooking, Crack, First Kiss, First Time, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, John becomes Sherlock's muse, M/M, Mind Palace, Ratatouille Fusion, Restaurants, Self-Discovery, exaggeration of a Mind Palace's capabilities, no living rats involved in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 03:30:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 40,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7828789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooSel/pseuds/TooSel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes, 23 years old and in possession of highly developed senses, starts working at France’s top restaurant (rather involuntarily). John Watson, owner of the restaurant and chef de cuisine, soon takes charge of his training.</p><p>The catch is that Sherlock, for the life of him, cannot actually <em>cook.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Appetiser: Soupe à l'oignon

**Author's Note:**

> It's the Ratatouille AU you never knew you wanted! The story deviates from the film in several ways so it's not necessary to have watched it, although I highly recommend it.
> 
> English isn't my native language, if you spot any mistakes feel free to point them out!

Sherlock idly played with the remote control in his hands, squinting at the television over his outstretched legs.

“Although each of the world's countries would like to dispute this fact, the French know the truth: The best food in the world is made in France. The best food in France is made in Paris. And the best food in Paris, some say, is made at Chef Auguste Gusteau's restaurant. It used to be the toast of Paris, booked five months in advance. His dazzling ascent to the top of fine French cuisine has made many competitors envious. He was the youngest chef ever to achieve a five-star rating. Chef Gusteau's cookbook 'Anyone Can Cook' climbed to the top of the bestseller list. But not everyone celebrated its success.”

A thin, boyish looking man appeared on screen, sneering at the camera. Sherlock stopped turning the remote over and frowned. There was something about his eyes that left him feeling uneasy, an air of _vacancy,_ for the lack of a better term. He tried to shake the feeling, irritated by his reaction, and instead paid attention to what he was saying.

“Amusing title, 'Anyone Can Cook', isn't it? Such a funny man, dear Gusteau. What's even _more_ amusing, though, is that he actually seemed to believe it! I, however, take cooking seriously. And no, I don't think _anyone_ can do it. Not at all, no, no. Which is why I know that Gusteau's restaurant is going to fail, now that he's dead and his nephew has taken over. Gusteau might have been able to produce decent meals. Supposedly! Supposedly. But that little degenerate from overseas? Give it... oh, shall we say five months?” His lips stretched into a thin, humourless smile. "Five months, yes? Yes, oh, definitely. No more. Not _one_ more."

A picture of a handsome young man faded in. The narrator continued, “The nephew in question however, 25-year-old John Watson, who was born and raised in England, has something else to say on that matter.”

A clip of an interview with him started playing. Sherlock had seen it before. The man was wearing an apron and had noticeable dark circles under his eyes, but he looked at the interviewer with determination. His stance and demeanour clearly said military. Of course, Sherlock already knew that, having seen every documentary on the man available.

“Yeah, I've heard the critics. Especially that one,” John was saying on screen. “You know what I think? It's bullshit. Anyone can cook, it's true. It's why I'm here. That's what my uncle stood for, and that's what we believe in this restaurant. Of course, that doesn't mean that anyone who cooks is _great_ at it.”

Sherlock waited for the brief smile to appear, and there it was. It was close-mouthed, not all that amused, and over in a second, but it was one of the only smiles Sherlock had ever seen him give. John continued, “Far from it, actually. But anyone has it in them, no matter where they come from or who they are. Good food is like music you can taste, like colour you can smell. That's what Gusteau told me once, when I was on holiday here as a kid, and it's true. It's all there, you just have to be open to it. And then you can do it.“

Sherlock shook his head despite him not being able to see it. The man, like his uncle, suffered from the gross misconception that had earned him all his money and fame. It was a nice notion, Sherlock had to admit. But as usual, it was a mistake to theorise without all the facts. A tragic mistake on their part. And the wonderful-sounding, hopeful idea that _Anyone Can Cook!_ \- well, it was no more than that. An idea. A fantasy.

He was ripped from his thoughts when he heard the sound of footsteps behind him.

_Oh, fantastic._

“Acquainting yourself with your new workplace, I see?”

“Piss off, Mycroft.”

Sherlock groaned when Mycroft did the exact opposite, settling on a chair next to him instead. The close proximity irked him, and Mycroft knew it.

“Really, Sherlock? I thought we were past this,” he remarked, raising a single eyebrow. “This is not the time to continue childish feuds.”

Sherlock stared at the TV, determined to ignore his brother until he left him alone. Though they shared a flat since he'd moved to Paris they didn't see much of each other, as Mycroft was out doing work for his  _minor position in the French government_  most of the time. Sherlock preferred it that way: having to see him in the evenings was more than enough as it was.

Mycroft seemed to wait for him to speak. When it became clear that Sherlock wasn't going to acknowledge his presence, he crossed his legs with a sigh. His lips curled into a dry smile as he said, “I would have thought you'd be more keen on the opportunity to develop this particular skill of yours, seeing as it's the only thing you're better at than me.”

Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms. He knew what Mycroft was trying to do, but he wasn't going to rise to the bait. He wasn't going to break.

He wasn't going to.

He _wasn't_ going to.

“You can't _make_ me, Mycroft,” he spat out.

Well, that had lasted long. It irritated Sherlock to no end that his brother knew _exactly_ how to get a rise out of him. Even after all the years that had passed, they still carried out the same old conflicts. It seemed to be at the heart of every argument (and there were a lot of those) - anything Sherlock could do, Mycroft could do better.

Except for this one thing.

From a very young age on, it had been clear that Sherlock possessed a highly developed sense of taste and smell.

The catch about this particular skill of his was this: he couldn't actually _cook_. Which made him, in Sherlock's eyes, still not actually better than Mycroft, and was thus deemed a useless talent and considered something he did not plan on pursuing further, thank you very much.

Only that Mycroft wouldn't bloody _let it go_. And now he was trying to force Sherlock into starting a career with his useless skills. Hateful.

Mycroft let out a long-suffering sigh. “Sherlock, you know as well as I do that I have means to _make you_ do it, though I'd prefer to not have to make use of them.”

 _Would you? Would you really,_  Sherlock thought, the notion evident in the perfect raise of one eyebrow on his otherwise still face. Mycroft ignored this carefully constructed look, knowing that it would annoy him further.

“You'll get your own flat,” he reminded him instead, and Sherlock shut his eyes.

That, perhaps, was Mycroft's greatest bribe, and he knew it.

As his older brother and only living relative in France since the death of their grandmother, Mycroft had been given control over Sherlock's trust fund and finances until he reached the age of 25, and thus held all the power over him.

“Oh, don't be ridiculous,” he'd said when Sherlock had accused him of abusing this power. “I merely want what's best for you.”

“Piss off,” Sherlock had said in response.

A lot of their conversations seemed to go that way.

However little he liked it - Sherlock, being 23 and fresh out of university, with no job offers on the horizon, was forced to let his brother have at least some control over his life. It was _hateful._

The promise of his own space, at the very least, held a strong appeal.

“You did promise that,” he said reluctantly.

“And I keep my promises,” Mycroft confirmed with a nod. “Of course, it would be a small accommodation, and I'd supervise your attempts at living on your own to a certain extent. It would be, however, yours.”

Sherlock blew out a deep breath through his nose. 

“Fine.” He returned his attention to the TV. “Suppose I agree to your ridiculous conditions. Why does it have to be Gusteau's? It's not even _him_ anymore. His nephew is in charge now, John what's-his-name.”

John Watson. Sherlock knew his name, remembered it, because Sherlock had watched every available coverage of the story after Gusteau's death that included interviews with his young nephew. His French was adequate, though heavily accented. He, who - as his uncle - was of the opinion that anyone could cook, just because he himself could do it.

“If they want to, that is,” he'd said in an interview shortly after taking over the restaurant. Sherlock had wrinkled his nose, not taking his eyes from the screen for one second. “It's no piece of cake-” his lips had twitched at the flat joke, and Sherlock had huffed- “but that doesn't mean that you can't get there. Anyone's capable of it. Look at me. Nobody thought I could do it when Gusteau died and left the restaurant to me. But _he_ believed it. So I did. And I made it.” He'd shrugged. “And that, to me, proves that anyone can.”

Well, he hadn't met Sherlock yet.

Sherlock frowned in disdain, abandoning the gloomy thoughts.

“You know why, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, looking at him with exasperation. Sherlock felt a surge of satisfaction at the sight. “My investments in Gusteau's restaurant after his death were crucial for the survival of the establishment. I've been repeatedly assured that they'd be glad to help me with anything I might need. I'm sure getting my little brother a job is included in that offer.”

Sherlock couldn't argue with that. Following a bad review from France's top food critic – the one Sherlock had just seen on TV, Jim Moriarty – the restaurant had lost a star. And after Gusteau's sudden death, they'd lost another one. The staff would probably kiss Mycroft's feet for having saved them.

“But- there'll be _people,_ ” he said. “At Gusteau's. Customers and _colleagues_ and-” And John Watson. John Watson, ex-soldier from England, who believed that anyone could cook. Sherlock resisted the urge to groan. What an embarrassment for the both of them.

Mycroft smiled. “And won't that be a fantastic opportunity to train your social skills, brother dear.”

“Oh, for god's sake,” Sherlock cried, pushing himself from the sofa to leave the room. He didn't need this condescending piece of brotherly wisdom on top of everything else.

He flopped onto his bed upon reaching his room, groaning as his back hit the mattress.

The truth was, Mycroft was right. Sherlock _didn't_ get along with people. He was somewhat fascinated by them, that much was true, observing their little quirks and traits and habits with the utmost interest. But he'd never quite figured out how to act like one of them, how to fit in.

Just another thing his brother was better at.

While the solution to this particular problem, to Sherlock, had always been to quite simple stay away from people, Mycroft seemed keen on the idea of introducing Sherlock to the French society. As a _cook_ , of all things.

Sherlock still wasn't convinced that he wasn't doing this to spite him.

He groaned again, burying his face in his hands. Mycroft was always right. It was so _tedious_.

Of course, it was too much to ask that just this once, Sherlock could come out on top in an argument. Which was why he found himself being dropped off in front of Gusteau's restaurant two weeks later, a deep frown on his face and a letter addressed to John Watson in his hands.

He briefly considered just not going in and turning around to leave, but then dismissed the thought.  

Mycroft would know. He'd shake his head in disappointment and take away Sherlock's brand new flat, and the next two years would be absolutely miserable. So, no, not an option.

Sherlock took a deep breath and willed himself to push the door open.

He'd been at Gusteau's before, once, when Gusteau had still been alive and Sherlock had just gotten to Paris. The restaurant looked mostly the same, with a few minor decorative changes here and there. John Watson was evidently trying to keep his uncle's legacy alive in every way he could.

“Can I help you with anything, sir?” Sherlock's head snapped up. A man with a slightly crooked bow tie was looking at him expectantly, clearly mistaking him for a customer.

“I'm here to see John Watson,” Sherlock said, then grudgingly followed him to the kitchen.

“Please wait here, sir” the man told him. “He's very busy, but he'll get to you soon.”

Sherlock nodded, waiting for the man to leave before letting out a deep sigh. He scanned the kitchen, trying to make himself as invisible as possible, growing more uncomfortable by the minute. What was he attempting to do here? He didn't belong in a kitchen. Not this one, not any kitchen. He couldn't _cook,_ for god's sake.

This was going to be a disaster.

The few minutes before the chef showed up dragged on like hours. By the time his voice sounded through the kitchen, Sherlock had catalogued each staff member and their current activity twice.

“I need the new menu in my office by tomorrow morning, got it? Morning, not afternoon. And then- who the hell are you?”

Sherlock straightened when John's eyes met his. “What are you doing here?” he asked, coming to stand before him. Though he was much shorter than Sherlock, he radiated authority. His eyes roamed over Sherlock's head and chest once before snapping back up. “You can't be back here.”

“I can,” Sherlock said, holding out the letter Mycroft had given him when John's eyebrows shot up.

“What is that?” he asked, but took the letter and opened it. Sherlock let him read in silence, feeling the eyes of the staff members on him. He kept his firmly on John, frowning as he read.

He looked up from the letter after a short while, raising his eyebrows. “You're Mycroft Holmes' brother?” he asked, blinking at him. Sherlock's frown deepened.

“I prefer to be called _Sherlock,_ but yes,” he replied pointedly. John paid him no mind, returning his attention to the letter. He sighed when he reached the end, then sucked in his lower lip. He seemed to debate something with himself as he chewed on the flesh, then looked up again.

“Right. Can you cook at all, Sherlock?”

“I thought anyone can cook,” Sherlock replied. John's eyes narrowed and Sherlock tried not to cringe. That had come out harsher than he'd planned.

“Let me rephrase that,” John said, a crease appearing on his forehead as he blinked up at him. Despite his height, Sherlock felt intimidated by his gaze. He didn't appreciate the feeling. “Do you have any experiences in cooking, or working in a kitchen, or waiting on tables whatsoever?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “No.”

John set his jaw, then gave him a scrutinising look. “Right,” he said with a sigh, licking his lips. He tucked the letter into his pocket, then turned around. “Come with me.”

Sherlock followed him into his office, where he was subjected to another once-over. “You're thin, aren't you? We'll have to see which ones will fit you. Here, try these," John said, pushing a pair of working clothes into his hands before showing him the bathroom.

He waited outside for him to change, his arms crossed as he leaned against the wall. His eyes moved over Sherlock's body once, taking in the slightly too baggy clothes, before he nodded.

“This will do for now,” he said, straightening as he turned around. “Come on, I'll introduce you to everyone.” He pushed the doors to the kitchen open.

“This is Greg, the executive chef. Don't be fooled, this restaurant might belong to me, but he's the one who runs it. I'm chef de cuisine, as you probably know. The lady over there is Molly, our pastry chef...”

Sherlock didn't bother trying to remember the names of his new colleagues. He didn't plan on talking to them more than absolutely necessary.

“And who's that, then?” the oldest of the staff asked from behind his clipboard. Geoff, or something close.

“That,” John replied, turning to Sherlock with the hint of a smirk, “is Sherlock Holmes, our new dishwasher.”

“Your _what?_ ” Sherlock spluttered. John seemed vaguely amused by his aghast expression.

“We all started small,” he said by way of explanation, pushing a dishcloth into his hands. “Welcome at Gusteau's restaurant. Now get back to work, everyone!”

Sherlock stared after him with his mouth hanging open, only moving when the man who had asked after him clapped him on the back, pointing towards the sinks.

He walked there slowly, refusing to believe that this was happening. The mountain of dirty dishes greeting him seemed to mock him, confirming that this was, in fact, reality.

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. When he opened them again, the pile of dishes was still there.

He took another deep breath and reached for the tap. And so, his first day of work began. And god, it seemed to drag on forever. The work was mind-numbing. With nothing to occupy his thoughts, Sherlock felt like he was going to implode within minutes. After only a few hours, his feet began to hurt like hell, and he shifted uncomfortably from one leg to the other. He wasn't used to any kind of physical work - he didn't even work out, for god's sake - and so, though the work was hardly challenging, he felt the strain acutely.

At least he didn't have to talk to anyone, as the people in the kitchen mostly let him be to get their own jobs done. His only interaction was a short chat with the pastry chef, a plain looking woman not much older than him.

“Molly,” she said when she approached him in the afternoon. “Molly Hooper. In case you forgot. I mean, John introduced us, but I know how it is when you're new and there's all those people and names!” She laughed nervously. “You're Mycroft Holmes' brother, right?”

Sherlock groaned. “It's Sherlock, _please,_ ” he said through gritted teeth, glancing at her when she laughed again.

“Right, Sherlock,” she repeated, fumbling with her hands. “Well, listen, if there's anything you need help with, just say the word, alright?”

Sherlock frowned down at her. “I'm here to do the dishes, apparently. What could I possibly need help with?”

“Right. Oh, I mean, I don't know. Anything, really! Just- don't hesitate, if there's something, alright?” She smiled, then turned around. Sherlock blinked after her, then shook his head and returned his attention to the dishes with a sigh.

He was mentally counting the minutes until he could leave, the monotonous countdown soon turning into a mantra as the seconds ticked by. He could feel a headache coming on by the time his shift was done.

John caught him before he could slip out, signalling him to come into his office. “Sherlock, a word?”

“Yes, what is it?” Sherlock asked upon entering the room. _Am I fired? Oh, please, please, tell me I'm fired._

He might have looked more hopeful than adequate, if the raised eyebrow on John's face was anything to go by.

“Um. Sit down for a second, will you?”

Sherlock obeyed, trying to school his features into a more neutral expression while John rummaged through the drawer of his desk.

“Ah,” he breathed out after a moment. He took out a book, moving his hand over the cover before looking up again. “How did you like your first day?” he asked, walking around the desk to stand next to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked up at him with a frown. Did John expect an honest answer to that? Probably not. But then again, an honest answer might get him sacked, so maybe he should give one. If he got fired, Mycroft couldn't blame him, could he? He would have tried, he wouldn't have succeeded, and most importantly, he wouldn't be the one to blame.

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but found that he'd waited too long with his answer. John looked like he was holding back a smile, shaking his head as he leaned on the desk.

“Yeah, I know,” he said. Sherlock shut his mouth with a click.

“Listen, Sherlock.” John ran a hand over his face. “I'm gonna be honest here. I'm really grateful for what your brother has done for me. For _us._ Truly, I am. And if he wants you to start a career here as repayment, that's fine. But I can't let you work on the food right away, especially if you have no experience. We'll need to work on that before you can start learning how to cook. I'm sorry about that, but I have a responsibility. I can't risk this restaurant's reputation for the sake of an- apprentice. Even if it's the brother of the man who saved us.”

Sherlock nodded, feeling his cheeks heaten under John's intent gaze. “Of course. Um. John.” He cleared his throat, irritated by his elevated heartbeat. “I don't- need to be employed. Honestly. It's fine. I can just- go, if you like. We'll forget this ever happened.”

John blinked at him, shaking his head slightly. “What are you talking about?” The frown on his face made him look five years older than he was. “I'm not trying to get rid of you. On the contrary. You're welcome to stay. I just can't promise you a career as a chef right away. I hope Mycroft understands that. And you, too.”

Sherlock exhaled slowly. “Alright,” he muttered flatly.

John raised an eyebrow as he looked at him for another moment. Then his gaze returned to the book in his hands. It was clearly several years old, looking yellowed and well-used. He stared at the cover for a moment, a soft smile coming over him, then looked up and held it out to Sherlock.

“Here,” he said. “This was my uncle's. First edition. He gave it to me a while before he died. It got me into cooking. Maybe it'll do the same for you.” He raised a warning finger. “Be careful, though. I want that back.”

Sherlock nodded, taking the book carefully. “Thank you,” he mumbled, surprised to find that he meant it. Then he got up.

“And, Sherlock?”

He turned around to see John looking at him with a thoughtful gaze. “Don't give up just yet, yeah? You'll get there.”

Sherlock blinked, then nodded. "Alright."

“Good night, Sherlock,” John said, dismissing him with a nod.

“Good night,” Sherlock replied, then left, the book pressed to his chest.

When Sherlock got home – to his very own flat, for the very first time – he was too tired out to appreciate the feeling. He left the lights off, going straight to the bathroom to clean himself up before slipping into his pyjamas. He dropped on his new bed like a stone, raising his wizened hands to examine them.

He let out a deep breath when he dropped them to his sides, determined to forget about this day as soon as he could.

An image of John flashed through his head, leaning on the desk in his office, holding out the book with a smile. His words echoed in Sherlock's mind. _Don't give up just yet. You'll get there._

Well, maybe not forget about _everything._

He turned to his side, willing himself to close his eyes.

He fell asleep within minutes.

* * *

Much as he'd expected, the following days dragged on in the same manner. Nothing challenging whatsoever came Sherlock's way, and soon the first week had passed. Despite his initial intention, Sherlock slowly started to memorise his colleagues' names.

There was Molly, who kept trying to make conversation with him although he did nothing to reciprocate. Greg (or Gavin, possibly, he was still unsure on that front), the executive chef. Sally, the sous chef, and someone whose name Sherlock just couldn't be bothered to remember, the line cook. Mrs Hudson, the head waitress, an elderly woman who seemed to have taken a special liking to him. As she'd started smuggling biscuits into the kitchen to “feed that skinny new boy up”, he didn't particularly mind.

And, of course, John. John, who kept bustling around the kitchen, barely sparing him a glance.

“Don't blame him,” Gavin said one day, catching Sherlock with his eyes trained on John's back as he dried a pan. Sherlock blinked at him. He hadn't noticed him approaching, and he didn't know why he had.

Sherlock had only watched John because he'd been standing there, really, and his back was marginally more interesting than the seventh pan Sherlock had cleaned that day. He didn't need reassurance; it was fine. John wasn't here to make friends with him, after all.

“He's incredibly busy,” Gavin continued, unaware of his thoughts. “Doesn't mean that he doesn't like you or anything. There's just this huge amount of pressure on him, yeah? 25 years old and chef de cuisine at the most famous restaurant in Paris. Not exactly an easy thing to deal with.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I do what I can to make it easier on him, but he's the boss. Always has half a dozen things to do at once, the poor lad.” He gazed at Sherlock. “I'm sure he'll get to you when he finds the time.”

Sherlock considered denying that he'd been pondering on the matter at all, but Gavin gave him a look so knowing that he didn't bother.

“Alright.” He still wasn't quite sure why he'd been telling him this, or what he was supposed to say now, but he knew that thanks were probably expected. He cleared his throat. “Thank you... Gavin.”

Gavin eyed him from the side. “It's Greg.”

“Yes. Thank you, Greg.” There was always something.

By the end of the first week, Sherlock had more or less settled into the new rhythm. The work, however, still bored him out of his mind. Seeing as it wasn't going to get any more interesting, he was determined to leave it behind as soon as possible.

There was nothing for it. He'd have to learn how to cook. And if nobody was going to do it for him, he'd just have to teach himself.

He opened the cookbook John had given him on Friday night, having been too tired the days before to gather the motivation.

If he was honest with himself, he'd been a bit reluctant to get started. Though everyone at the restaurant seemed to believe it, he still wasn't convinced that anyone could cook.

Least of all him.

Sherlock shook his head, trying to banish the memories of mediocre food and ruined dishes still lingering in his mind years after he'd stopped trying.

“Well,” he mumbled, opening the first page. “Let's see if Gusteau has a secret in store.”

There was a foreword before the first chapter. Sherlock skimmed through it, only halting when he read the final paragraph.

_You must not let anyone define your limits because of where you come from. Your only limit is your soul. What I say is true - anyone can cook. But only the fearless can be great at it._

Sherlock huffed, shaking his head slightly. Fear. Emotions. Those had nothing to do with cooking, that much he knew. Cooking was a matter of chemistry, after all.

He stopped before paging forward, his attention being caught by a picture at the bottom of the page.

It was a rat. The illustration was small, waving at the reader with a smile. It was wearing a tiny chef's hat. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Disregarding the fact that rats could not _smile,_ he was seriously debating the sanity of whoever had decided to put a rat into a _cookbook._

Flipping through the book he found the rat on several pages, demonstrating techniques or lingering at the side in ridiculous poses. On the final page was a larger illustration, smiling at the reader with a speech bubble that read “Anyone can cook! Even me!”

Well, that was one way to drive your point home.

Sherlock shook his head and went back to the beginning, starting to read. And not long after that, he started to memorise.

He filed the information and techniques Gusteau described in his book away in his Mind Palace – a place he'd built just for himself, where no one else was allowed, especially not Mycroft. Where he stored everything he was interested in. He often retreated there when he found himself restless or bored, seeing it as a place he belonged, didn't feel like an outsider in.

It may have been a lonely place, but it was a lonely world, too. Sherlock didn't mind being alone. He didn't need anyone.

Studying the contents of Gusteau's guide, however much or little he might have agreed with them, proved to be tremendously more exciting than washing the dishes with nothing to think about. Sherlock was mentally revising the third chapter for the second time this shift when he heard a voice addressing him from behind.

“How's it going, chef?”

Sherlock nearly jumped at the sound. He turned around to find John leaning against a counter, looking like he'd been watching him for a while. He seemed to be amused by Sherlock's face, so he quickly tried to school his features into a more neutral expression.

“You mean me?” he asked, exchanging the plate in his hands for a new one before turning around to face him again.

John nodded. “Optimism doesn't hurt, does it?” Sherlock tilted his head in consideration, looking sceptical. John's lips twitched at that.

“I see you haven't lost your spirit,” he joked, raising his eyebrows.

“Me? Never,” Sherlock replied dryly. “Didn't Mycroft tell you? I'm optimism incarnated.”

John actually laughed at that. It was a short, loud sound, resonating down Sherlock's spine with astonishing clarity.

“That makes two of us, then,” John said. He licked his lips, searching his face. “Jokes aside,” he continued, the smile fading from his features, “how are you doing? All settled in?”

Sherlock huffed. “Much more than necessary. I think I'm ready to start learning now.”

John quirked an eyebrow. “You in a rush?”

Sherlock sighed. “If you want me to be honest, this work is _killing_ me,” he said without thinking, pointing at the plate in his hands. He felt heat rising in his cheeks a moment later, cursing himself for the unnecessarily dramatic comment. Although it hadn't been his idea to work at Gusteau's, John had been nice to him, and he didn't want him to think of him as ungrateful. 

John didn't seem to mind, though. He just straightened, taking a step towards Sherlock. He had to look up at him as he spoke, meeting his eyes on purpose.

“Be patient,” he said, squeezing Sherlock's arm. “We'll get there.” Sherlock's eyes flickered to his hand. He nodded mutely, staring after him as he turned around and left him to his dishes.

It took a few seconds for Sherlock to realise that he was still rubbing the same plate dry. He set it down, reaching for a pot as he got back to work. His arm was still tingling where John had touched him, minutes after he'd left. Sherlock found that it wasn't an unpleasant feeling at all.

* * *

By the time Sherlock received his first pay cheque he knew Gusteau's cookbook by heart - forwards and backwards – and was past the point of being impatient, growing rather insane by the minute.

He knew the theory on cooking, but still nobody had taught him how to actually _do_ it. It was immensely frustrating. Sherlock found himself grinding his teeth while washing the dishes, reciting the chapter on pastries for the umpteenth time, glaring at anyone and anything in his way.

“Bad day?”

He turned around at the sound, gazing at John behind him. He looked rather worn out today, but didn't have a constant frown on as he usually did when he was stressed. Just a bad night's sleep, then.

“Please let me cook,” Sherlock said in lieu of an answer.

John snorted. “Down to begging, are we?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I never beg.”

“Sure you don't.” John was smirking up at him, the expression momentarily lighting up his features. Sherlock blinked at the curve of his lips, getting a little sidetracked by the sight. Why was he _smirking_ at him?

“My point still stands,” Sherlock said, trying to change the topic. John's face told him that he knew exactly what he was doing, but went with it for Sherlock's sake.

“I'd like to let you,” he said, putting a hand on his hip. “But I can't, not yet. You need to be taught first.”

“So teach me,” Sherlock said, gripping the counter behind him with both hands. “I'm ready.”

“I told you, I can't. You won't be a dishwasher forever, I promise, but I don't have the capacity to teach you right now. I'm sorry.”

“Come on,” Sherlock groaned, giving him puppy eyes that did nothing but make John laugh.

“That doesn't work on me, you know.”

“No, I suppose it wouldn't,” Sherlock sighed. He blinked at him, then tried again. John just shook his head, then turned away.

“Tell me, was it your abruptly ending military career that made you so cruel, or were you just born that way?”

Sherlock froze when John stopped dead in his tracks before slowly turning around again. It occurred to him about two seconds too late that this might not have been the best thing to say, even as a joke.

 _Especially_ as a joke.

He suppressed the urge to bang his head against the wall.

“Come again?” John asked, stepping closer.

“Nothing. I- forget it.”

“No, tell me. What was that?” Sherlock's eyes darted to John's, but he looked surprised rather than offended. Sherlock swallowed.

“I- it was a joke.”

“Yes, but how did you know?”

“Everyone knows about you having been in the military.”

“Yes,” John said with a nod, “but nobody knows that my career ended abruptly, as you put it.”

“Don't they,” Sherlock mumbled, narrowing his eyes. “Hmm.”

“Yeah,” John said, tilting his head. “So how did _you_ know?”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Well, you're here, for starters.”

John rolled his eyes. “You don't say. But that's not proof. I could have left because I wanted to,” he pointed out.

“Yes, but you didn't.”

Sherlock stopped. John looked at him, clearly daring him to say it.

“You were wounded in action,” Sherlock said quietly. “You still have nightmares about it, if I'm not mistaken.”

John blinked at him. “How-?”

“You look tired, but you're not stressed. You've gotten a lot of work done yesterday and it's been a quiet day so far, which means that your exhaustion has a source other than work. The obvious guess would be that you're having trouble sleeping. What causes trouble sleeping? Nightmares. Who gets commonly nightmares? Invalidated soldiers with a form of PTSD. Simple.”

John shook his head, opening his mouth and closing it again. “That... was amazing,” he eventually said.

Sherlock blinked. “You think so?”

John nodded. “Definitely. I'd say it's a lucky guess, but you must have been pretty damn lucky to get all that right.”

His lips twitched as Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “I never guess.”

“Course not.” He narrowed his eyes, glancing up at him through his lashes thoughtfully. “I'm curious, though. How did you know I was wounded in action?”

“Alright, that was a bit of a guess,” Sherlock admitted reluctantly, and John turned around with a laugh.

“I knew it!” he called, pointing a finger at Sherlock.

“I didn't know for certain that you were wounded in action, but it's the most likely option. You've been shot in the shoulder, haven't you? The left one.”

“Correct,” John said, more serious again. “What gave me away?”

“You sometimes hold your arm a bit stiffly when you carry a pan. It's hardly noticeable if you're not looking for it.”

“And you were? Looking for it.”

“Yes. I saw you reaching for your shoulder a couple of times during my first days. I don't think you realise you do it. It's as though you're reassuring yourself that it's all healed and done.”

John licked his lips, looking at him in something akin to astonishment. The thought made a warm sensation spread in Sherlock's stomach.

“You know, I'm beginning to think that you're wasted as a dishwasher.”

“So let me cook,” Sherlock said immediately, giving him a pleading look. “Please.”

“Soon,” John promised, smiling up at him. “Not just yet, though.”

And he turned to leave. Sherlock let out a deep breath, shaking his head slightly as he tried to identify the unfamiliar tingling he felt in his belly. John turned around again then, grinning like Sherlock had never seen him grin before.

“Twice,” he called at him.

Sherlock frowned. “What?”

“You just begged. Twice.” And with a wink he disappeared.

Sherlock was left staring after him, fighting a smile threatening to overrun him. The rest of his shift somehow didn't feel as bland after that.

* * *

The soup was seething. Sherlock watched the bubbles appear and burst on the surface, the steam rising from the pot, clouding his view.

“The soup is going to boil over,” he called into the room. Nobody answered him, like the two times before. Sherlock let out a deep breath, pushing his pan back into the sink with a splash.

He knew that Greg and John were currently in the back, discussing something about next week's menu, but that didn't explain why nobody else seemed to consider it their responsibility to look after the pot. Wasn't this a number one safety rule, to not let boiling pots out of your sight?

Sherlock stepped away from the sink, looking around.

“Hello? The soup?” He spread his arms. “Anyone?” Out of the few present people, no one replied. Sherlock let out a frustrated breath, then returned his attention to the pot.

And stopped moving when he saw a rat sitting on the kitchen counter. Well, not a rat. _The_ rat. The illustration from Gusteau's cookbook.

Sherlock blinked at the sight before him. The rat didn't disappear.

“You,” he said tentatively. “You're not real.”

“Of course I'm not, Sherlock, do keep up,” the rat said, rolling its eyes.

Sherlock would have scoffed at the image, hadn't he been so thrown off by the fact that the rat spoke with _Mycroft's_ voice.

He narrowed his eyes. “What is this?” he demanded to know. “Am I hallucinating? Have you come to torment me even at my _job_ now? Oh, that is so _typical_ of you."

“Oh, now this is sweet,” the rat said, crossing its tiny arms. “You assume I'm your brother.”

“Are you?” Sherlock asked, trying to ignore the absurdity of the question.

“No.”

“Well, you certainly share his grating voice, so you can't really fault me for making that assumption.”

“You gave me this voice,” the rat pointed out.

“I did not.”

The rat only gave him a look.

Sherlock huffed. “You're an illustration. Why am I even talking to you?”

“Because you know what I am. I'm part of your Mind Palace, Sherlock. It's really not that hard. Do try and keep up. I'm every piece of information on cooking you've ever absorbed. I'm just not _in_ your Mind Palace. It does get lonely up there, doesn't it?”

“Shut up.”

“Which is why I'm depicted as a living creature, something you associate with cooking and can converse with. A cure for your loneliness. Sweet, isn't it?

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I don't need your pseudo wisdom. I'm not lonely.”

The rat actually _smirked_. “How would you know?”

They stared at each other for a moment. Sherlock huffed, then crossed his arms.

“Besides,” the rat continued as if nothing had happened, and Sherlock just couldn't shake the disturbing mental image of Mycroft as a tiny rat that made this whole situation so _bizarre_ , “I'm _you_. It's _your_ pseudo wisdom, _your_ brain thinking you're lonely enough to need a companion. Make of that what you will.”

“Fine,” Sherlock snapped, then looked up in alarm as he remembered his surroundings. “You can leave now. Goodbye.”

“No, I can't.”

Well, that would have been too easy.

“What do you want?” Sherlock demanded to know.

“ _I_ don't want anything. It's about what you want.”

“You're not making any sense,” Sherlock accused the rat.

“I am, you're just not keeping up, Sherlock. I'm your knowledge about cooking. There's a pot of boiling soup on the cooker and nobody to take care of it. Nobody to supervise you. Now what exactly is it that you want?”

Sherlock knitted his brows, crossing his arms. “I can't just mess with the soup,” he said. “It doesn't matter that I want to.”

“Whyever not?”

“I can't. I can't cook. Nobody has taught me how to do it yet.”

“But you're a genius, aren't you? Oh, I know you are. You created _me_. Figure it out.”

Sherlock's fingers tapped on his arm. “John told me not to do it,” he argued.

“I don't see John anywhere,” the rat replied, raising its eyebrows. “Do you?”

Sherlock sucked in his lower lip, glancing around the kitchen. When he looked back down, the rat was smiling.

“Go ahead,” it said, gesticulating towards the cutlery. “Just try it. We both know you want to.”

“Going by your logic, you're me, so that statement makes no sense,” Sherlock muttered as he reached for a spoon. The rat just grinned.

Sherlock dipped the spoon into the soup, blowing before tasting the hot liquid.

“And?”

He opened his eyes, only then realising that he'd closed them. He shook his head slightly. “It's... good.”

“But?” the rat prompted.

“It's- _just_ good. But no more than that. It needs some final seasoning.”

“Like what?”

“Like-” Sherlock closed his eyes again, dissecting the taste lingering in his mouth. He catalogued the components he could make out, then put them aside to focus on the rest.

“Vegetables, no, liquid, no, this soup is missing something else, something fresh, something like...”

He opened his eyes, his gaze falling on the basil on the spice shelf.

“Go on, Sherlock,” the rat purred. “Take the basil. It's right there. Take it.”

In a moment of what he could only describe as mental derangement later, Sherlock reached for the basil and threw a handful into the pot.

“Now stir,” the rat said, nodding towards the spoon. Sherlock stirred. The enticing movement of the soup began to draw him in. His entire focus narrowed on the dish before him.

“What else?” he mumbled, recalling the way the soup had tasted. “It's too bland, too... it needs something, something tart, something- oh!”

He leapt for the vinegar, adding a good shot before clapping his hands. “Right, and one last thing, I should think...”

He searched the spices until he held dried coriander in his hands. Though he despised the taste of fresh coriander, the dried alternative held a certain appeal. He was quite certain that this was _just_ what the soup needed to be perfect.

He glanced at the rat before adding a dash, but it was only watching him in silence. Sherlock stirred the soup again, inhaling deeply. The steam held too little data, however, so he took out another spoon and dipped it into the dish before raising it to his mouth.

He nearly dropped the spoon when the taste unfolded on his tongue.

Oh god. Oh _god._ He had ruined it.

“It's awful! Oh god, quick, do something! Why aren't you doing something?“ he hissed, staring at the rat.

“What can _I_ do? I am a figment of your imagination,“ the rat said, sounding so much like Mycroft that Sherlock seriously contemplated strangling it, if he had any way of doing that.

Sherlock shook the thought, looking around in panic. He nearly jumped when he saw Mrs Hudson appearing at the door, looking straight at him.

“Sherlock, dear, it's just you, is it? Has Greg not returned yet? I really do need that soup, the customer's been asking.”

“Uh,” Sherlock said, swallowing past the dryness in his mouth. "This soup?”

“Yes, that's the one. Do you know when Greg will come back?”

Sherlock shook his head mutely.

“Oh, well, nothing for it. Can you fix me a plate, then?”

“I-”

“Ah, never mind,” Mrs Hudson said, mistaking his strangled voice for something else entirely. She moved past him, patting his shoulder before grabbing a plate and reaching for the pot. “I'll fetch it myself. I haven't been working here all these years for nothing!”

By the time Sherlock found his voice again, she had filled the plate to the brim. “Mrs Hudson, I don't think-”

“Hold on, I'll be right back,” she called over her shoulder, oblivious to the rising panic in Sherlock's voice as she carried the plate out of his reach. “We can chat in a minute, dear!”

And she was out of the door. Sherlock stared after her as desperation took over him, rendering him speechless. He crossed the room in quick strides, pressing his face against the round window to get a glimpse of the scene. The soup had already reached the customer. Sherlock averted his eyes, unable to watch her try the first spoon.

He grabbed Mrs Hudson by the shoulders the second she pushed the door open.

“Mrs Hudson, you need to get that soup back. Right now.”

“Oh Sherlock, really, it's no big deal. I've fixed the plates hundreds of times before, it's not a problem. Greg, have you and John decided on a menu?" Sherlock froze, looking around to see that Greg had indeed returned. "I've been thinking, there's this stew we haven't had in a while...” Mrs Hudson chattered on as Greg moved to the cooker, reaching for a few plates. Sherlock trailed after them.

“Mrs Hudson, really, this is-” he began once more, but was cut off by a bang. Everyone looked up to find Molly standing in the middle of the room, a large pot at her feet and shards all around her. The remaining sauce from the pot had splashed out, coating the tiles.

“Whoopsie,” Molly said, laughing nervously as she bent down. “Sorry everyone!”

Sally rolled her eyes, but threw her a towel. Everyone else returned to their jobs, the incident already forgotten.

Sherlock swallowed, returning his attention to his own problem in front of him.

"Mrs Hudson, please, I'm serious," he called on her, feeling sweat form on his brow.

Mrs Hudson paid his statement no mind, already busy with another plate, so he turned to Greg, trying to catch his attention instead.

“Ga- um, Greg. Lestrade. Please.”

“Not right now, Sherlock,” Greg said with a wave. “I need to get these plates ready, we have two more orders for the soup and-”

“I made that soup!” Sherlock burst out.

The statement was met with absolute silence. Molly stopped picking up shards, blinking rapidly. Sally's spoon dropped onto the counter. 

Sherlock swallowed, wiping his sweaty palms on his apron.

“No, you didn't,” Greg said carefully, his attention finally on Sherlock. “That's my soup. I cooked it.”

“Yes. And then I seasoned it.”

Greg's mouth fell open. Molly clapped a hand over her face.

“Are you insane? Why the hell did you do _that?”_ Greg groaned, then pushed past him to the door without waiting for an answer. “Never mind. I'm gonna get that plate back.”

“It's too late, dear,” Mrs Hudson stepped in before he could push open the door to the dining room. “The customer's already eating.”

Sherlock and Greg looked at each other.

“Fuck,” Greg muttered.

“We could pretend there's something wrong with the soup and that we need to take it back,” Molly suggested.

“Oh, as if that's not about five times worse than just serving them a bad meal,” Sally cut in.

“Well, what do you suggest?” Greg barked. Mrs Hudson shook her head in silence, her hand pressed to her chest.

Everyone began talking at once, hissing at each other over the sound of Sherlock's fast beating heart. It seemed to skip a bit, however, when a voice appeared that made everyone fall silent. Sherlock didn't think that he'd ever heard the kitchen so quiet before. There was usually some melody of chopping, stirring, clattering. Dishes being arranged, voices chattering or calling. But this, this was deadly, ominous silence.

“What's going on here?”

Sherlock shut his eyes. John made his way through the kitchen, crossing his arms when the silence stretched on. “Anyone care to fill me in? Anyone at all?”

Sherlock would have killed for the earth to open up and swallow him whole. He glanced at Mrs Hudson, who returned the look helplessly.

At least none of his colleagues were trying to sell him out. Even Sally, whom he'd gotten into a near fight with on his second day, was watching in silence.

John's expression was growing angry and Sherlock swallowed, straightening as he cleared his throat. John's eyes fell on him. He looked surprised, clearly not expecting him to deliver bad news.

_Oh god._

“I... messed with the soup and now a customer is eating it.” Sherlock winced at he croaking of his own voice. He let out a shaky breath, forcing himself to meet John's eyes.

John was staring at him with his mouth hanging open. Part of Sherlock's brain would have dwelled on how endearing it made him look (and how he never deemed anything endearing and what exactly he was supposed to do with this new information), if the situation hadn't been so terribly _unfortunate_.

“You did what?” John asked. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to curl up into a ball. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. This was all wrong.

He gripped his own wrist, swallowing before repeating, “I messed with the soup.”

John's face displayed several emotions in succession before settling on something Sherlock could only describe as stormy.

“What- the _hell_ have you done?”

His quiet voice was more crushing than any screaming could have been. Sherlock almost wanted him to yell. “I added basil, coriander and vinegar,” he stated.

John's chest heaved. “And why the hell did you do that, hm?”

Sherlock sniffed, feeling his defensiveness kicking in. “Nobody was paying attention to the soup." None of this would have happened if he hadn't been left alone, after all. "I tried it and found it lacking in several aspects, which I attempted to even out by adding these ingredients. Cooking is just chemistry,“ he insisted stubbornly.

Objectively he knew that he was in no position to be stubborn, seeing as he'd just ruined the soup and, quite possibly, the restaurant's reputation. 

But as the evening had proved, he didn't always make the best choices.

“ _Cooking is just-_ no, it's bloody not, Sherlock!” John hissed, pacing around. “Jesus. And just what was it that made you think you were in any position to touch the soup when I have specifically told you that you're not ready?” he growled, giving him a look so grave that Sherlock physically took a step back.

Before he could come up with a reply that didn't make him sound insane, John had turned away from him, reaching for a spoon.

“Out of the way,” he mumbled darkly, stepping towards the pot.

Sherlock held his breath as John dipped the spoon into the soup, raising it to his mouth. He blew on it once before tasting. Sherlock's chest contracted uncomfortably when he grimaced and let the spoon sink.

“Fuck,” John muttered, and Sherlock was swamped by a wave of nausea.

Oh god. Why had he ever thought he could get this right? What had made him think that he could cook? His cheeks burned with shame and he lowered his gaze, unable to look at John's face any longer.

“John-” he began, though he had no idea what to say. He just needed to make this right. He needed to-

“No,” John cut him off, the single syllable effectively silencing him. “Don't. Just- go home, Sherlock. Go home. You're of no use to me right now.”

Sherlock swallowed, feeling the gaze of everyone in the room on him. He gathered as much of his posture as he could muster and left with quick strides.

The cool night air hit his face as he pushed the door open and rushed down the street, trying to fight down the suffocating tightness in his chest, threatening to overwhelm him.

His flat was dark and cold when he got home, offering no comfort. He didn't bother switching on the lights, going straight to his bedroom. Gusteau's cookbook was waiting for him on his bedside table, the illustration of the rat on the opened page mocking him with its silent grin.

“This is all your fault,” Sherlock ground out. The rat remained silent.

Sherlock dropped face down on the bed, groaning into the pillow before falling silent as well. What good was it now?

He'd messed up. It was done. He'd embarrassed himself completely. He'd possibly cost the restaurant its reputation within a single day.

And perhaps worst of all, he'd disappointed John. He'd disappointed _John._ Whatever had been building between them, whatever little sympathy John might have had for him, it was all ruined now.

Sherlock didn't understand why he cared so much. He didn't _want_ to care. But the sinking feeling in his stomach remained, no matter how often he told himself that.

Eventually he rolled onto his side, grasping at his blanket as he stared into nothingness. He retreated into his mind palace, searching for a solution. When he found none, he opened his eyes again.

This wasn't right, he realised as the shadows of his furniture wandered over the wall. And wallowing in self-pity wasn't going to fix it. Contemplating how to get out of work the next day wasn't going to fix it. John's face flashing before his eyes time and time again wasn't going to fix this.

No, there was only one way this situation could be rightened.

Sherlock sat up, determination setting in. He may not be good at cooking, and he may always be second best to Mycroft. But second best to Mycroft was still rather impressive to most people. He'd been born with a highly developed sense of taste and smell, and he'd be damned if he wouldn't figure out a way to use it. If anyone could, it was him. He was a genius, for god's sake. He was going to get this right.

He was Sherlock Holmes, and he was going to learn how to cook.


	2. Intermediate Course: Ratatouille

Sherlock took a deep breath, staring at the scarce stock of food in front of him. The shops were already closed, so this would have to do for now.

He waited, then cleared his throat. “Hello?”

The continued dripping of his tap was the only reply. Sherlock huffed. Typical. When you needed something to be done...

He closed his eyes, entering his Mind Palace. The rat was waiting for him in a kitchen room he hadn't seen before.

“There you are,” Sherlock said.

“Where else would I be?”

“Outside of my head, perhaps. You know, where I need you.”

The rat huffed. “Have you still not caught on? I'm never outside your head, silly. I'm an extension of your Mind Palace.”

“I know that,” Sherlock bit out, feeling irritation rising in him. “Just... get out there. Do whatever it is you did earlier.”

“Why?”

“You need to teach me how to cook. I want to learn. I'm ready to learn.”

The rat gave him a scrutinising look. “No,” it said, voice dripping with condescension. “I don't think you are.”

And it was out of the room before Sherlock could say another word.

“Oh, fantastic,” he growled, opening his eyes. “I'm not ready, am I? Everyone keeps telling me that, but nobody cares to fill me in on what needs to happen for me to _be_ ready!”

Sherlock paced the room in frustration, feeling his blood pressure rising. “I'm not stupid. I can learn how to do it. I can do it!”

He didn't know who he was yelling at, pacing faster as the silence answering him clearly conveyed  _you can't, you can't, you can't._

He closed his eyes, going through his Mind Palace. The kitchen door was locked. The other rooms were empty, mocking him with silence and blank walls, blank tables, blank shelves. _You can't. You're not ready. You can't._

Sherlock stopped in his tracks when he realised that his heart was beating so hard that hefelt it pounding against his ribcage. He inhaled sharply, shaking his head. No, he _wasn't_ ready. Not like this. He needed a clear head, needed to be able to think. He needed to breathe.

_Breathe._

Sherlock closed his eyes again and breathed until his pulse slowed down. When he opened them again, the rat was sitting on the kitchen counter.

“Now you're ready,” it said, and it was changed, softer somehow. “Come on. There's work to be done.”

The voice was different, not harsh anymore. Filled with something like gentleness, and... sounding a bit familiar, actually.

It wasn't Mycroft, not anymore. This voice was lighter, definitely not condescending. Friendly, even. It seemed to be teasing him a little, in a good way. A very good way, he decided.

Because now that he thought about it, it almost sounded a bit like John.

Sherlock smiled and began to work.

* * *

The way to work felt twice as long as usual. Sherlock blinked blearily as cars and people rushed past him, displaying an energy he couldn't find within himself that morning. He'd only slept for two hours last night, and though that wasn't unusual, he felt drained on a deeper level.

All his exhaustion evaporated however when he entered the kitchen, laying eyes on John immediately. He was talking to Sally, catching his eyes over her shoulder.

Sherlock swallowed, then moved to get changed. By the time he was done, Sally had turned away and John was standing on his own. Sherlock straightened his shoulders when their eyes met again. Then he made his way towards him.

“John,” he said quietly as he came to stand before him.

John gave up pretending to be engrossed in the numbers on his clipboard and looked up. “Hey,” he said carefully.

“John, there's- something I should say. Um. About yesterday. I really am- sorry. Very, in fact. I made a grave miscalculation, and the outcome was- unfortunate.”

John sighed. “Yeah, I know.” He blinked up at him. “I should have fired you on the spot, you know.”

Sherlock froze. “I-”

He broke off, completely at a loss as to what he ought to say to that. Agree? Beg him not to?

John chewed on his lip, then said something entirely unexpected. “Well, it's done now. Apology accepted.”

Sherlock blinked. “What?”

John's lips twitched ever so slightly. “You heard me.”

“But-”

Sherlock mentally kicked himself, both for his ineloquence and his inability to let it go. John sighed, putting the clipboard away. Though he was considerably shorter than Sherlock, his squared shoulders and the look on his face were enough to make him fall silent.

“No, you know what, actually? I've worked too long and too hard to get this position. I may be the great Gusteau's nephew, but I started out as a dishwasher, just like you. Never got any special treatment, because that's not how it works. It can't, if you ever want to get anywhere. And I did, I got somewhere, because I worked my way up. I'm not going to let some other dishwasher ruin that, got it?”

“Right.” Sherlock winced at the croaking of his voice. “Alright, I'll just-” He fumbled something with his hands, turning away to hide from John's alert eyes. For a second he'd thought that maybe, just maybe, they were alright. That they'd be fine. That he, Sherlock Holmes, could be liked and understood by someone like John Watson.

Clearly that was not the case. Another gross miscalculation on his part.

“Where are you going?” John's voice cut through to him, sounding bewildered.

Sherlock glanced at him, his face clearly speaking volumes.

“No, no, I don't mean it like that. God. We've got it all wrong, haven't we?” John sighed. “Maybe it was my fault for treating you like a dishwasher when you're clearly overqualified for the job. Even if you can't cook yet.” He raised his eyebrows and Sherlock lowered his gaze, feeling his cheeks heating. “But the truth is, that soup wasn't all bad.”

Sherlock's eyes shot up. _It wasn't?_

“I can tell what you were trying to do with that combination, only that it was completely... the wrong way around. But I'm beginning to understand what your brother meant when he wrote that you had highly developed taste and smell. And if you can't cook, there's only one way to change that. You're going to learn how to do it.” He straightened, giving a brisk smile. “And I'm going to teach you.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, then realised that he was gaping, since words were currently eluding him. He blinked rapidly, finally settling on asking tentatively, “You will?”

John nodded with determination, and a surge of something Sherlock couldn't identify went through him at the sight.

“When?”

“No time like the present, right? We start today. Right after I finish my paperwork, in fact. From now on, you follow me.” He licked his lips, giving him a long look that brought the colour back to Sherlock's cheeks. “I'll be damned if we don't make a cook out of you.”

* * *

 _Making a cook out of him,_ as Sherlock realised soon, entailed rather more work and less cooking than he'd anticipated. Even though John _had_ said he'd have to work for it.

It started when he was assisting John with making Ratatouille – his official first dish. John suddenly halted in his preparations, looking vaguely amused as his eyes fell on Sherlock.

“What are you doing?“ he asked.

Sherlock blinked at him. “I'm cutting vegetables.“

“No, you're not. You're wasting time and energy.” He took the knife from Sherlock's hand, brushing his fingers in the process. Then he started chopping like his life depended on it, somehow still managing to make it look effortless.

“Cooking isn't like what you do at home in your kitchen, yeah?” he continued. “Not in a restaurant. Here you have to face the dinner rush, when the orders come flooding in and every dish is different and difficult in its own way, and all of them have different cooking times, but must arrive on the customer's table at exactly the same time, hot and perfect. Every second counts. The art is to keep your cool throughout all that.“

Sherlock blinked and John finished the last piece, looking at him with a glint in his eyes.

“Right.”

John pressed the knife back into Sherlock's hand, lingering there for a moment before withdrawing. “You'll get there,“ he said, giving him a rare smile. “You're a bright boy. I'm sure you can figure it out. You just need to figure it out fast, alright?”

Well, Sherlock was nothing if not determined. He imitated John's chopping technique as soon as he reached for the next aubergine, memorising it to file away in his Mind Palace later.

The memorising was something of a peculiar business. He wasn't putting the information away like he'd used to in the past. He was, in a manner of speaking, feeding it to the rat now every night when he got home. A rat that still spoke like Mycroft, most of the time. After the one night it had sounded like John, it had returned to Mycroft's snarky voice again. Sherlock had to admit that it was somewhat fitting. Though he'd never say it out loud, it gave him a weird sense of satisfaction to train the rat.

Talk about family issues.

But as it turned out, at least he wasn't the only one with those.

The rat appearing outside of his mind palace was becoming more and more frequent. Sherlock supposed that it meant he was making progress, but the little avatar was increasingly getting on his nerves.

Especially when it spoke. Which it did all the damn time.

“Bloody Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered under his breath when it wouldn't shut up one day, and John looked up in surprise.

“Do you know that you do that out loud?”

“What?”

“Insulting your brother.”

“Oh, that. Well.” Sherlock shrugged. “He's a pain in the arse.”

John bit his lip, refraining from commenting. Sherlock cast him a suspicious look, and suddenly they were both giggling.

“Shh,” John hushed him, gripping the counter. “You're gonna get me in trouble.”

“Oh, as if he would show up here.”

“Maybe he wants to check on you?” John said, chuckling.

“You mean spy on me. But no.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Not when it requires... legwork.”

John snorted. “Right.” He glanced at Sherlock, then sobered as he asked, “You really don't get along, then?”

Sherlock continued stirring, trying to think of a way to sum up 23 years of issues in one sentence. “We have our... difficulties,” he said, catching John's eye as he looked up. Something in his gaze, a flash of understanding, made him go on. “We didn't really get in contact with other children until we were much older. It was usually just him and me.”

Sherlock remembered that time, remembered endless days spent trailing after Mycroft, absorbing every word he said. He'd looked up to him so much back then. It felt strange, remembering that now.

He surprised himself by saying as much out loud.

“Yeah, I know the feeling,” John said. “Older siblings, they're everything to you, aren't they? Like a god. Until one day you realise that they're not.” He frowned as he added flour to his dough.

“What happened with yours?” Sherlock asked. John's eyes snapped up, surprised by the question.

“Well. You know. The usual dysfunctional family story, I suppose.” He pursed his lips. “Harry and I used to be... really close, as kids. It was us against the world, against our parents. Especially our dad. Until one day she just- turned into him, I guess. Made all his mistakes. Started doing what she'd judged him for for years.” He shrugged. “Of course, trying to tell her that wasn't exactly the right way to go about things. Nowadays it's just... we don't speak anymore, not really. Not all that surprising, with my family. Since Gusteau died I haven't really spoken to anyone. They're all in England, anyway.”

Sherlock gave a considerate hum, keeping his eyes trained on John's face. He shifted his weight and his arm brushed John's as he reached for a spoon.

“I don't... usually talk about that sort of thing,” John said, his eyes on the dough he was kneading.

“Oh.” Sherlock frowned, dropping his gaze.

“It's fine,” John hurried to say, his eyes flickering up. “It's not- I don't mind. If you know.”

Sherlock swallowed, giving a hesitant smile. “Alright.” His heart jumped funnily when John returned the smile, then dropped his eyes again, licking his lips. Sherlock kept looking at him, unable to take his eyes from his focused expression, his short blond hair, his glistening lips.

“Mycroft is better,” he blurted out, overcome by the desire to share something of his as well, to keep the conversation going.

John looked up, raising his eyebrows. “What?”

“He's better. At everything.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Always has been. When I realised that everything I could do, he could do better, we started fighting all the time. We still do.”

“I'm sure that's not true,” John said, frowning at him. “That he's better at everything, I mean. Everyone has something they're good at.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, “but he's _better._ The only thing I have that he doesn't is my sense of taste and smell. And since I can't cook, it's a rather useless talent.”

“Yet.”

Sherlock looked up.

“You can't cook _yet,_ ” John said, elbowing him gently. “But you're going to. I made it my personal mission to teach you, and I can be really bloody-minded when I want something. And anyway,” he continued, “it was your brothers idea for you to start working here, wasn't it? Doesn't seem like he wants to keep you from being great at something.”

Sherlock only huffed, but felt something in him relax at the words.

“Besides, there's one thing I can guarantee you have over your brother. But you have to promise not to tell him.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. John looked at him expectantly, his lips curved into an easy smile. Sherlock nodded and he leaned up, making a show of mumbling into his ear.

“I wouldn't want to spend my days working with Mycroft by my side, but I'm rather enjoying having you there,” he whispered, then dropped down again.

“Pass me the milk?” he said in a normal voice, winking as he took the bottle from Sherlock's hand. Sherlock felt himself smiling against his will. They continued working as though nothing had happened, as though Sherlock couldn't still feel the warmth of John's breath ghosting over his ear.

* * *

“I don't understand,” Sherlock said, staring at the recipe John had pushed into his hands.

“I want you to cook this dish,” John repeated patiently, pointing towards the cooker. “On your own.”

Sherlock blinked, the meaning of his words catching up with him. “But- why?”

“Because I'm busy, as is everyone else, and you're too good to go back to washing dishes. This is an easy one, I know you can do it.”

Sherlock skimmed over the recipe. John chuckled at the crease appearing on his forehead.

“Hey,” he said, touching his wrist. Sherlock's eyes shot up. “It's okay if you're nervous, but you really don't have to be. This is just a test. You're allowed to fail.” He paused, quirking his eyebrows. “But I know that you won't. You're ready.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, then straightened his shoulders. “Of course. I'm ready,” he repeated. John smiled.

“There we are. Now go on,” he encouraged him. “I'll check on you in a bit.”

He left and Sherlock turned around, putting the recipe onto the counter with care. It was a stew. Easy enough. Not very challenging, rather plain.

Sherlock was determined to get it right. He reached for a chopping board and got to work. He became so engrossed in the task, his focus narrowed down on the food so entirely that he almost didn't notice when John was passing by him, stopping dead in his tracks.

“What is this?“ he demanded to know, staring at the kitchen counter.

Sherlock looked up, blinking as his focus shifted on John.

“It's-“ he started, but before he could as much as state the obvious, John shook his head.

“No. No, no, no. Keep your station clear. No matter what, always, at all times, got it? When the meal rush comes, what do you think's going to happen?”

He didn't give him time to think of an answer, waving with his towel as he resumed his way to the office. “Messy stations slow things down. Food doesn't go out, orders pile up, you get stressed and mess up. Disaster.“ Sherlock ducked when the towel came flying his way. It didn't hit him in the face, but it was a near thing.

“Clean up, now!“ John called over his shoulder, already gone again.

Sherlock stared at the towel, then sighed and started cleaning up. He was looking out for John the next time he came out of his office, spreading his arms and quirking an eyebrow as he presented the clean kitchen counter.

John only nodded, his shoulder brushing Sherlock's as he went past him. Sherlock smiled.

The stew was coming along nicely, as far as he could tell. He watched the contents of the pot seethe, then went to fetch a spoon and dipped it in. He closed his eyes, letting the taste sink in.

“Good?”

He blinked an eye open. The rat was on the cooker, peeking into the pot with barely concealed curiosity.

“I think so,” Sherlock mumbled, licking the taste from his lips. “It's... as it should be, I suppose.”

The rat looked up. “But you're not entirely satisfied?”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, regarding the pot thoughtfully. “Well, it's the recipe. There's something missing, something to make it extraordinary.”

“And what?” He looked at the rat when its voice changed, smiling slightly. Even its- his face seemed to resemble John, the kind eyes, the soft smile.

“A spice,” he declared, looking up to scan the shelf. “Something to round it off, John, something you wouldn't expect.”

“I'm not John.”

“Yes,” he said distractedly, going through the taste of the spices he'd catalogued in his mind. “Ah,” he breathed out, shoulders relaxing as he found the solution. “Of course.”

“What is it?” the rat asked curiously.

“Cinnamon,” Sherlock declared, smiling faintly. Something sharp but sweet, mixed in somewhere entirely unexpected, somewhere seemingly ordinary. Simple, and yet enough to knock you off your feet.

An image of John flashed before his eyes, and he shook his head slightly.

“Cinnamon! Of course, that's a good idea.” The rat pointed at the shelf. “What are you waiting for?”

“No.” Sherlock crossed his arms. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“It's not in the recipe.”

“You're improving the recipe,” the rat said, looking disappointed. Sherlock closed his eyes.

“No. I'm not experimenting anymore.”

“It's not an experiment if you know it's the right thing.”

He remained quiet. “Oh, come on!”

Sherlock ignored the rat's pleas until it eventually fell silent with a sigh.

“Sherlock?”

He shook his head resolutely. Then a hand touched his arm and he nearly jumped, spinning around to find John standing behind him with raised eyebrows.

“John,” he said as he found his voice again, trying to look like his heart hadn't just skipped a beat.

“You okay?” John asked, giving him a concerned look. “You looked a little moony just now.”

“Yes. Fine. I'm fine.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “The stew is finished.”

“Oh?” John said, taking his hand from his shoulder as he looked at the pot. Sherlock knitted his brow.

“It looks good,” he said. Sherlock held out a spoon and he took it.

He held his breath as he tried it, a relieved sigh escaping his lips when John smiled.

“It's good,” he complimented him, his tongue darting out to lick over his lips. Sherlock followed the movement with his eyes. “Yes, good. I like it. Good job.”

Sherlock's lips curved into a smile on their own account. He basked in the praise, noting with curiosity how his heart seemed to beat faster.

“So how did you manage?” John asked, ripping him from his thoughts. “Was it hard?”

“Not really, no. The instructions were plain enough. The carrots aren't mentioned again after step two, but I assumed that they were supposed to be chopped and cooked along with the other vegetables.”

John skimmed over the recipe, then nodded. “Right. Any other difficulties?”

“Nope.”

“Good. And what do you think?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “About what?”

“The recipe,” John said, leaning on the counter as he looked at him. “Do you like it? Would you change anything?”

“I-” Sherlock hesitated, debating with himself whether to say something or not. “It's- simple. Good, but not great. Lacks a special something, I think.”

“Hmm,” John said, nodding slowly. His focus lay entirely on Sherlock. Sherlock found that it was a quite addictive sensation, the way his skin prickled, his heart pumped blood through his body at twice the usual speed. He found himself saying more, just to keep his gaze on him.

“Cinnamon,” he stated, and John raised his eyebrows.

“Cinnamon?” he repeated, his eyes narrowing slightly as he pondered on the option.

“Yes.” Sherlock swallowed. “It could work. I think,” he added.

“I think it would,” John confirmed. “Why, though?”

“I analysed the elements and considered the taste of different spices until I found the one that complemented the dish,” Sherlock explained.

John raised his eyebrows, nodding slowly. “Okay,” he said, “but why?”

Sherlock blinked and he clarified, “I mean, why does cinnamon complement this dish, exactly?”

“I just thought, this stew, it's quite ordinary, so you wouldn't expect anything like that in it. It's surprising, but it fits. It's... extraordinary.”

“So you hide something extraordinary somewhere people wouldn't expect it?”

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. “Yes.”

John smiled, nodding as well as he straightened. “Very good. You're getting somewhere, Sherlock.”

He left him standing at the cooker, touching his elbow as he went past him. Sherlock's lips turned up into a smile as he reached for the cinnamon.

And step by step, Sherlock really started to feel like he _was_ making progress.

Even though John always seemed to find something new for him to work on.

One day he just stopped walking before him and sighed. “Okay, really? That's enough now.”

Sherlock froze, trying to think of what he'd done wrong. Had he made a mess? Forgotten to put in any ingredients? Taken over someone else's cooker without noticing (again)?

“What is?” he asked hesitantly when he couldn't come up with anything, and John shook his head.

"Your sleeves, Sherlock! What the fuck are you doing with them? They look like you've thrown up on them. Really, for someone with that level of personal grooming you're incredibly messy. Here, let me-"

He stepped closer, rolling up Sherlock's indeed daubed sleeves for him. Sherlock stilled completely. He could see all the different shades of his hair from this close, going from light blond to washed out brown. John's hair in about ten year's time, when age-related greying set it, would be a marvel to observe. Sherlock could make a chart about the different colours. He could write a symphony about the play of light and dark and all the shades in between.

Sherlock realised that he'd stopped breathing only when John spoke. “There. Keep your hands and arms in, close to the body. Like this, see?“

Sherlock mimicked the motion, ignoring the way his heart jumped against his ribcage, and John nodded in approval.

“Good. Always return to that position. Lots of danger in a kitchen, yeah? Sharp utensils, hot metal, steaming liquids, fast moving people. That way you will minimise injuries and keep your sleeves clean.“

He seemed more relaxed now, apparently content to have Sherlock's undivided attention. He pointed at himself. “Mark of a chef. Tell me what you see.“

Their eyes met and the corner of John's mouth lifted as he nodded. Sherlock knew that he was indulging him. He liked when John did that. It made him feel used, in a good way. Appreciated. He didn't get to show off his observation skills here often. Knowing that John had remembered them, and remembered them fondly enough to coax them out of him here and there, was quite exhilarating.

_What do I see?_

Ruffled hair, damp from sweat. Crinkles around the eyes as he awaited Sherlock's answer. Looking almost teasing, definitely relaxed. Much more so than he usually seemed, the realisation of which shot a spark of pride through him. But Sherlock knew that this wasn't what he wanted to hear.

“Messy apron, clean sleeves,“ he observed.

John smiled. “Exactly.” He arched an eyebrow, one hand on his hip as he asked, “All clear?”

Sherlock nodded, lips curved into a half-smile. “Got it.”

He sat in front of his washing machine that night, eyes following the movements of his clothes while his thoughts were miles away.

John had called him well-groomed. John, who was always busy and burdened with work, had taken enough time to notice Sherlock's grooming habits. Then again, Sherlock pondered, he'd also taken him under his wing, even after the soup disaster, taught him how to cook, told him about his family, indulged him in deductions-

Sherlock hadn't gone into Gusteau's thinking that he'd make a friend. He hadn't even gone in thinking that he could learn how to cook. But John had disproved him in both aspects.

For once, Sherlock found that he really didn't mind being wrong.

* * *

The clothes came out pristine white. Sherlock wore them with pride the next day, and though John didn't comment on it, the approving gaze he sent his way told Sherlock that he'd noticed. He puffed his chest impalpably, feeling a little lighter as he approached him.

“What's on for today?”

“Hold on. I'm just gonna finish this, then we can start. We'll do a bit more talking than cooking today.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but waited patiently for John's undivided attention.

“Grab some onions,” he instructed when he was done, “we're making a soup today.”

Oh. “Which soup?”

John glanced at him. “Soupe à l'oignon.”

Sherlock only stilled for a second, but it was enough for John to see.

“Hey,” he said, stopping him from walking on with a hand on his chest. “There's no need to be scared about this, alright?”

“I'm not scared,” Sherlock said, and true enough, his heart was beating fast for an entirely different reason that moment.

Still, he was worried. “Why this one, though?” It came out more pleading than he'd intended.

“Because you're making good progress, Sherlock. Really good, I mean that. But you're never going to get anywhere if you don't get over this soup. You can't be scared in a kitchen. This is no place for fear.”

Sherlock swallowed. “Well, I can't exactly help it, can I? And it's not like I have a splendid history with that soup. What I did to it-”

He broke off, frowning at himself for the intensity of what he was feeling. It was just a soup, for god's sake.

“ _The_ soup,” he heard the rat say. He didn't look around to see where it was, keeping his eyes on John instead.

“Sherlock.” John took his hand from his chest, instead grabbing both of his wrists. Sherlock cursed the onions he was holding for preventing him from taking his hands.

“I'm not saying that you're wrong for being afraid. That's fine, it's only natural. But in order to become a good chef, you have to get over that fear and leave it behind. I know that's not an easy thing to do, trust me.”

Sherlock did. He suddenly realised that John was only 25, just two years older than him, and he'd been stemming the weight of the entire restaurant for as long.

If anyone knew about being scared, it was probably him.

“I do,” Sherlock said, watching something in John's face twitch at the admission. “I just don't want to fail again.” _And disappoint you._

“I know,” John assured him, taking a step towards him. He didn't seem to mind having to look up even more at Sherlock now. The close proximity made everything appear sharper, more focused. The air between them was buzzing. “But the thing is, you're allowed to fail. Especially now, while you're still in training. This is the time to make mistakes, and learn from them, and then come out better than you were. And you don't have to do it alone.” He squeezed his wrists, then let go. “It's what I'm here for, isn't it?”

Sherlock swallowed, nodding once. “Alright. Yes.”

John looked at him for another moment, then turned around. “Follow me, then,” he said, and together they got started.

This time Sherlock was part of the process, witnessing the creation of the soup step by step. He didn't have to analyse the ingredients, instead going over each one with John, discussing its part in the final dish.

John asked him about the changes he'd made the first time and Sherlock explained why he'd chosen them, although it made his cheeks burn in embarrassment. John didn't laugh at him once, though. He didn't even shake his head or dismiss him. He listened, and he thought about his words carefully, and then they discussed better options.

The rat sat on the counter between them, unbeknownst to John, listening to every word they said. For once it remained silent.

When the soup was seething, both John and Sherlock looked into the pot.

“You see, you weren't totally off with your reasoning behind the spices,” John said, glancing up at him. “But you went about it from the wrong perspective. You remember what you said to me afterwards?”

Of course he did. Every word. “That cooking is just chemistry,” Sherlock said.

John nodded. “Right. And to a certain extent, it is, of course. But you'll only get so far with that mindset. From then on, you have to let go of that thinking and _feel_ what you're going to do with your dish.”

There it was again. Emotions. Like Gusteau, John believed, _acted_ on the base that great cooking involved feeling. Sherlock had always dismissed that notion, never seeing the point.

But John did. And Sherlock trusted John. So he listened, allowed himself to reconstruct his approach to cooking.

“You added vinegar because you thought that the soup needed something sour.”

Sherlock nodded. “But vinegar is much too crass for this meal. It takes all the attention from the carefully constructed base. This is where you have to _feel_. What you told me about that stew you did, why you added cinnamon, that was really, really good. That's where you need to get. You have to develop a sense for the food, for what adds to it and what takes from it, and why.”

“And I do that by... feeling it,” Sherlock finished. John nodded.

“Exactly.”

“But how? How do I learn that?”

John bit his lip as he thought, squinting at Sherlock before turning around, reaching for a spoon.

“To me, food is very much like people. That was Gusteau's secret, I think, but I figured that out on my own. In every dish, he always put something unexpected. Something maybe a little contrary to what you'd think, but still fitting. Each one of his recipes is so... complex. Like people,” he repeated. “Once you've learned that, and understood that-“ John dipped the spoon into the soup and blew on it, then held it out for Sherlock to taste. “You're ready to survive in this industry.“

Sherlock ducked to taste the soup, closing his lips around the spoon with his eyes on John. John swallowed, then raised an eyebrow. 

“So? What do we add?”

Sherlock licked his lips, never taking his gaze from John once. Something unexpected, mixed with something seemingly ordinary, but on second thought so completely fitting...

“Lime,” he said, and John gave him a grin so wide the whole kitchen seemed to light up.

“Amazing,” he praised, beaming up at him. “Very good. Fantastic.”

Sherlock felt like he was glowing from the praise. They glanced at each other for another few seconds before the soup, threatening to boil over, cut the moment short.

The memory of the look still lingered on Sherlock's mind when he went home that evening. He hadn't planned on doing any more training today, but found himself brimming with excessive energy and zest for action. He gathered his (now much more abundant, thanks to his regular cooking sessions) food stock and rolled up his sleeves. He tapped a finger against his lips, searching his Mind Palace for a recipe.

He quickly settled on a dessert. He was in the mood for something sweet.

Apple pie. Old favourite of Mycroft's. Sherlock had never quite seen the appeal of the family recipe. He quickly searched for all the ingredients, then started peeling the apples. He pondered the composition of the pie, tried to understand what had made it so unexciting to his past self.

Easy. Too plain. Overbaked. That last one could be helped. The taste, however...

How to improve it?

Sherlock recalled the taste he'd felt on his tongue dozens of times, dissected the different components. John's words came into his head-  _food is very much like people_. Once he'd understood that, he'd said, he could make it as a cook.

Of course, this meant that Sherlock, as someone who'd never quite understood people, was facing a minor problem.

But John had praised him for getting the cinnamon right. And he'd done it again with the soup, suggesting they add lime to it. He'd thought of John both of those times, and thinking of him again now made his stomach prickle in a way he couldn't quite fathom.

Feeling. He was feeling, and John had said that that was the key to cooking. Well, it seemed that John was the key to _his_ cooking. Sherlock maybe didn't understand people, but somehow he felt like he had a certain understanding of _John,_ a sense for him that he hadn't had before, that proved to be quite handy in terms of his kitchen skills.

And so his thoughts stayed with John as he searched his head for a fitting change.

“Gotten anywhere yet?”

He wasn't surprised by the voice - neither by its sudden appearance, nor by the fact that it sounded like John again.

“I'm thinking,” he told the rat, “I'm thinking that the unexpected is missing.”

“Probably,” the rat agreed. It peeked at the ingredients. “What do you associate with this pie?”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Childhood. Sunday afternoons, when our grandmother came for tea.”

“Right. You were little back then, weren't you? Just a kid. You didn't particularly enjoy those visits, did you?”

“I didn't _not_ enjoy them,” Sherlock amended. “I was just more inclined to other things. Sitting around all afternoon with boring adults and Mycroft wasn't my idea of a good time.”

“What did you want instead, then?”

Sherlock chewed on his lip. “Adventure. Stimulation, I suppose.”

“And that's what the pie is lacking as well, isn't it?”

“Yes.” Sherlock scanned his kitchen, stepping in front of the spice shelf. John's face flashed before his eyes, and suddenly he knew exactly what was missing. He couldn't explain it. He just _felt_ it.

“Nutmeg,” he announced, glancing at the rat. It was nodding approvingly.

“And..?” it prompted.

“Sour cream. Dry exterior, creamy interior. Sweet pie, sharp spices. Unexpected, but fitting.”

Sherlock gleamed with excitement as he bustled through the kitchen. He was overcome by a brimming sense of purpose, a driving force behind his movements, pushing him along, guiding him without him having to think about it. The rat added a comment here and there, and the sound of John's voice seemed to carry him through the entire process.

In the end, he carefully filled the baking pan to the brim, putting it in the oven with a strange sense of accomplishment. Now all it had to do was turn out alright.

The glowing feeling didn't last long. The baking itself took 50 minutes, and soon Sherlock was squirming with impatience. He'd gotten changed and wiped down the kitchen twice when the timer finally went off.

He opened the oven and took the pie out. It looked fine, but looks could be deceiving. He impatiently waited for the pie to cool down, then cut himself a still warm piece. He inhaled, taking in the smell of apples and cinnamon. Then he closed his eyes and tried a bite.

His eyes flew open in surprise. He stared at the pie, taking another bite for good measure.

“It's good,” he said in disbelief, blinking at the rat on the table. “I did it. It tastes _good._ ”

“Of course it's good, it's inspired by John,” the rat said. Sherlock had to smile at that.

“True,” he said softly. Then he devoured the remains of his slice before cutting himself another one.

When he was full and content he got up, looking at his work in silent pride. He smiled as the meaning of what he'd achieved caught up with him.

He'd made a pie. He'd made it, improved it, and it was _delicious_ _._

Mycroft's pies had never tasted that good.

Now what to do with it? He supposed he could serve Mycroft a piece when he came around for his weekly supervision. Just the one, though. As for the rest...

He cut off a large piece, carefully wrapping it in baking paper before putting the rest away for the night.

The thought of giving it to John already made him look forward to the morning.

* * *

John was completely smitten with the pie.

“What is that?” he asked as soon as he noticed the package on the kitchen counter.

“It's for you.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “I made that.”

John dropped his clipboard, giving him an intrigued look. “Really? What is it?” He peeked at the pie and Sherlock nudged it closer to him, signing him to open it.

John's eyebrows shot up as he unwrapped the slice. He held it up, inhaling deeply.

“You made that?” he asked again.

Sherlock nodded. “Last night,” he confirmed.

John smiled. “It smells good.”

“Try it,” Sherlock said, feeling a little breathless. John reached for a fork to take the first bite. Sherlock held his breath as he brought it to his mouth. John's eyes fell closed as he chewed, then immediately opened again to stare at him.

“This is really good,” he said, taking another bite. He hummed around the fork, blinking up at him. “Really, really good, Sherlock. This is amazing.”

Sherlock released a slow breath, feeling warm all over. “I- thank you,” he said, blinking rapidly. “I'm glad.”

John devoured the whole slice, picking at the crumbs in the wrapping paper before speaking again. “Tell me about it,” he asked, now giving Sherlock his undivided attention. “What did you do?”

So Sherlock told him, omitting the parts where his muse had taken John's form and an imaginary rat had given him tips.

“Amazing,” John said when he was done, looking at Sherlock with something like pride in his eyes. “You're doing so well, Sherlock. You've come a long way.”

And Sherlock started to believe that he actually had. He felt himself slipping into the right state of mind more and more, noticing that his actions became instinctive, his choices more precise and fitting. And John noticed as well, if his frequent smiles at Sherlock were anything to go by. John hardly ever smiled outside of his cooking lessons with Sherlock. It made him treasure each smile even more, made him feel like they were reserved specifically for him.

Sherlock had secretly been wondering if John would drop his lessons as soon as he showed improvements, but he seemed determined to not let him off the hook. In between their cooking lessons, he also started teaching him about food.

“Sherlock,“ John called one day and Sherlock immediately dropped his knife, wondering just when exactly the sound of his name in John's voice had started to sound like music. “Come over here for a second.”

Sherlock joined him at a trolley from a fresh bread delivery. John reached for a baguette and held it up. “There, see this? You know how you can tell how good bread is without tasting it?“

He handed Sherlock the loaf, clearly waiting for a response. Sherlock took it, feeling around the edges, holding it up to smell. John watched in silence.

“The sound,“ Sherlock said eventually, feeling pleasure surging through him when John smiled approvingly. “The sound of the crust.“

He nodded. “Old bread can still look good or smell fresh. But it can't sound like this anymore.“ He touched the loaf Sherlock was holding, squeezing to create soft crackles. They both listened in silence for a moment, their hands inches apart on the bread.

They both let go when the kitchen door was pushed open by Molly, entering with a stack of baking sheets, and Sherlock nearly dropped the loaf.

“I want to show you something else,” John said with a twinkle in his eyes when he'd put it back. “Come to my office in about... forty minutes, alright?”

Sherlock nodded, naturally showing up at the door ten minutes early.

“What did you want to show me?” he asked as soon as John stepped out of the office.

“A secret,” John whispered, grinning when he lifted his eyebrows. “Say, Sherlock, have you noticed anything about our fruit and vegetables?”

Sherlock frowned. “Nothing I can think of,” he admitted. “It's always fresh, top-notch quality. But other than that...”

“Nope, that's it. Best produce, without fail. Every day.”

“Right.”

John smiled. “The only way to get the best produce is to have the first pick of the day. And there are two ways to get the first pick.“

“Grow it yourself,“ Sherlock said instantly, then frowned. “Or... well, buy it?“ That seemed too easy. He had a feeling that John was talking about something else.

“Close thing,” John stated with a half-smile, signing him to follow him to the door. “Hold on,“ he mumbled. “There.“

Sherlock followed John's gaze, peeking outside to catch a glimpse of the restaurant's backyard. Greg was standing in the middle of it, surrounded by a fresh load of boxes with vegetables and talking to a delivery man. He signed a document, then reached into his pocket. He held something out to the man, and his fingers closed around it as though they'd done so hundreds of times before. Sherlock was too far away to see what it was, but he didn't have to be a genius to make a guess. He turned to John, giving him a questioning look.

John regarded him with a quirked eyebrow. “There you have it. Two ways: you grow it yourself, or you bribe a grower.“

“John Watson, you're a criminal,“ Sherlock murmured.

“Well, don't tell anyone,“ John said, amusement playing on his features. “Now come back inside. You never saw anything, remember? It'll be our secret.”

“Our secret,” Sherlock agreed, and the thought put a smile on his face.

* * *

Though most of their conversations revolved around cooking, their weeks spent together working in companionable silence, harmless bickering or breathless giggles evoked as sense of familiarity between them that Sherlock had never known with anyone else. Intimacy, even. He felt as though they shared a bond, his mood rising and dropping with John's.

Though he always made it a point to be easy-going with him (and Sherlock wasn't sure he was even aware of it), John was more than a little stressed otherwise. And it showed. Though Greg handled most of the paperwork, John's attention was required here and there several times during a day. Sherlock felt guilty sometimes for taking up so much of John's time (and that was a first, too – he couldn't recall ever having felt guilty before about another person in his life), knowing that it added to his stress. But John never complained, so perhaps their shared cooking time had become a safe space for both of them.

Sherlock _hated_ seeing John stressed. He couldn't stand it, doing his best to decrease it whenever he could.

He went as far as walking up to John on a particularly bad day, asking him to come and help with a dish. Sherlock didn't actually need his help, and John glanced at him repeatedly throughout the cooking, but he came without question.

Involving him in a conversation to take his mind off things was easy from there on.

“People think haute cuisine is snooty, so the chef must be snooty,” John said one day as they made spinach pies. “You can present that image of you to the public if you like. None of us here are, though. Well. You've met us. In the end, the only thing that matters is that you understand your work. The food.“

“I think I do, now,” Sherlock mumbled.

“I think so too.” They both looked at each other, and their eyes locked for a long, charged moment.

“Thank you, by the way,” Sherlock said when the tension grew too strong to bear. “For all the advice about cooking.“

John smiled. “Thank you, too.“

Sherlock gave him a perplexed look. “For what?“

“For taking it.“ He paused for a moment. “I know it doesn't come easy to you, following orders. But you're getting there. You're doing so well.”

Sherlock blinked at that. He lowered his eyes, feeling himself flush at the praise. It was quite curious that he still reacted that way. John certainly wasn't stinting on praise, so he ought to be used to it by now, shouldn't he?

Still, he found that he didn't really  _want_ to get used to it. He enjoyed the prickling sensation in his stomach too much, basked in the gleam of John's eyes when he got something right.

They worked in silence for a moment before John spoke again.

“What are you doing tonight?”

Sherlock looked up at the sudden change of topic.

“Uh. Nothing.” _Talking to an imaginary rat with your voice in order to improve my cooking skills_ probably wasn't an answer he should give. “Why?”

John licked his lips. “I was thinking, if you're free and in the mood, maybe we could go out?”

Sherlock blinked. “Go out,” he repeated. “Like...” He searched for the right term, frowning as he said, “friends?”

“Like that,” John agreed, ducking his head a little, “or, you know, just as two people who like each other and want to have fun. Get to know each other more. That sort of thing.”

John's cheeks seemed a little more flushed than the heat of the oven justified. Sherlock's mind was curiously blank.

“I... yes?”

“Yes?”

“Yes, we could. Do that.” He cleared his throat, giving him an uncertain look. “Go out.”

John beamed up at him. “Alright, then. Great.” He licked his lips again. “I'll pick you up an hour after closing time, yeah? What's your address?”

* * *

Sherlock was pacing in the hallway of his flat, checking his outfit in the mirror for the umpteenth time. He'd gotten changed twice before finally settling on a simple dark suit on a white shirt, standing out only through the tailored cut and slim fit on his body. He smoothed his hands down his chest, chewing on his lip as he inspected his hair in the mirror.

_As two people who like each other. Get to know each other. That sort of thing._

_That sort of thing._

Sherlock was about 70% sure that John had asked him on a date. Margin of error. Having absolutely no experiences in this area whatsoever, he was bound to get it wrong, wasn't he? Either this whole thing wasn't a date at all, or...

Or it was. And John had asked him on it.

He jumped when the doorbell rang, nearly tripping over the carpet as he hurried to let him in.

John only had to take a short flight of stairs before reaching him. He was wearing jeans and a jumper, with a black, well-worn jacket on top. He'd clearly just taken a shower, his skin was still flushed from the heat, his hair slightly damp at the nape.

Sherlock's eyes roamed over his changed attire, cataloguing every detail.

“That was fast,” John said, and Sherlock's eyes snapped up.

“What?”

“You. At the door.”

“Oh.” He frowned at his own lack of subtlety, but John didn't seem to mind. He was looking at him with bright eyes, his gaze moving over him once before snapping up again.

“Nice suit,” he said, definite hints of appreciation on his face. “Though I'm afraid you'll be a bit overdressed.”

“You didn't tell me where we're going,” Sherlock pointed out. He glanced down, then decided that the look on John's face was worth it and grabbed his coat.

“True,” John said, stepping aside to let him through. “You hungry?” he asked as Sherlock locked the door.

Tricky question. Was he asking because he wanted to take him somewhere to eat? Or was he making sure that he'd eaten because his plans didn't involve dinner?

In the end, Sherlock's growling stomach settled the question. “A little,” he admitted, giving John a careful glance. John only hummed.

“Well, you'll get hungry enough when we're there.” He winked, taking the lead on the stairs to hold the door open for Sherlock.

“Where _are_ we going?” Sherlock asked as they stepped onto the street and John unerringly turned left.

“Do you like Chinese?” John asked back.

Sherlock nodded. Definitely dinner, then.

“There's this place,” John continued, “it's a sort of open kitchen thing, you know? Where they cook in front of you and you can watch.” His eyes flickered to Sherlock nervously. “I thought you might enjoy that, I mean, the food's good and it's fun to watch, and you may actually pick up a thing or two, so-”

“Yes,” Sherlock cut him off, startling John into silence. He cleared his throat. “I mean, yes, that sounds great. Very good. I... look forward to it.”

“Alright,” John breathed out, allowing a small smile on his face. “Alright, then. Great.”

They walked in comfortable silence while Sherlock took in his surroundings. He knew most Chinese restaurants in Paris, albeit only through takeaway, so he was curious to see which one John would take him to.

He nearly walked on when John stopped, having missed the restaurant's sign entirely. The place was small and a little shabby, the letters on the sign already washed out.

Sherlock's eyebrows went up. “This is where you're taking me?”

The corner of John's mouth twitched. “Best Chinese in town,” he explained, holding the door open in a courteous fashion. “You won't find a better one.”

Sherlock stepped in, immediately shrugging out of his coat. The room was small and hot, most of the space taken up by the kitchen in the middle of it. The tables were tiny and situated closely to each other. Sherlock instantly felt comfortable.

John glanced at him, smiling when he saw the expression on his face. “Over there?” he asked, and they chose a table at the window, a bit more secluded than the rest, but still with a good view of the kitchen. A waiter brought them the menu. They ordered a bottle of water to share and a beer for John, then each skimmed the food.

“You got any preferences?” John asked, and Sherlock pursed his lips. He didn't want to seem picky, but if John wanted to order something repulsive like sesame duck, he'd have to intervene.

“Depends,” he eventually said, glancing at him.

“Well, I thought we could order a bit of everything and share, if that's alright with you?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes,” he agreed, “that's a good idea. But no sesame duck,” he added as an afterthought.

John quirked an eyebrow, looking slightly amused. “No sesame duck, then,” he said and waved at the waiter.

There was a moment of silence after they'd ordered and watched the waiter walk away.

“I hope you don't mind that this is a little... well, not very fancy,” John said, biting his lip.

“It's perfect,” Sherlock immediately assured him, letting his eyes roam over the interior design.

John licked his lips, his eyes moving down Sherlock's chest. Sherlock resisted the urge to squirm in his seat, desperately trying to keep it cool.

“I told you you'd be overdressed,” John said, not sounding sorry in the slightest.

“It's fine,” Sherlock said. John's eyes locked with his.

“A bit more than that I'd say,” he remarked, looking at him teasingly from under his lashes.

Sherlock swallowed. And swallowed.

“I bet you said that to Mycroft as well when you did business with him,” he eventually said, and his eyebrows shot up when John actually laughed at that.

“Trust me,” John said, leaning forwards, “I'd never.” He winked, his tongue darting out again. That damn captivating tip of his tongue. “He's not my type.”

Sherlock felt very hot as the implications of that statement caught up with him.

“Well,” he said, then swallowed. “I'm glad.”

From then on Sherlock stopped trying to anticipate the best possible answer to everything and just let it happen. He'd never had to worry about talking to John. He wouldn't start now.

His attention was soon captured by the cooks in front of him, anyway. John had been right. The restaurant provided a nice atmosphere as well as a great learning opportunity. Sherlock watched the pair seasoning expertly, using techniques he'd never seen before, working with efficiency he had yet to achieve.

It was captivating. He alternated between gazing at the sizzling pans and gazing at John. John caught his eyes every now and then, smiling each time.

When their food arrived, hot and steaming and smelling delicious, they dug into it without much preamble. The way John's eyes fell shut as his lips closed around his fork was positively  _sensual._ Heat pooled in Sherlock's belly that had nothing to do with the room temperature or the hot dishes in front of him.

They swapped and shared their food every few minutes, commenting on the dishes in between their conversation. Which, too, was enchanting.

John told Sherlock about his time in the army, his school years, the pranks he'd played as a kid. Sherlock recounted a few of the less incriminating pranks he'd played on Mycroft, feeling his chest swell every time he got a laugh out of John. They dwelled on memories of England, John more wistfully than Sherlock, and neither of them noticed as the evening went by, or the other guests left, or their knees bumped into each other at one point without either moving away again.

It took both of them by surprise when Sherlock's phone pinged with a text from Mycroft, showing them how late it had gotten.

“Jesus, is that the time?” John asked, sitting up. “God, I didn't realise. We're gonna be so tired tomorrow.”

Sherlock gave him a long look. “It was worth it,” he said, and John's lips quirked into a genuine smile.

“Yeah,” he agreed. His foot brushed Sherlock's under the table. Neither of them moved away. “Definitely worth it.”

They got the bill, which John insisted on paying. Sherlock only protested once, enjoying the thought of John treating him to dinner too much to really care. The waiter brought them a schnaps each, and they clinked glasses before downing it.

After that, Sherlock's mind was positively buzzing. He felt full and content, the schnaps had caused a warm feeling to spread in his belly, and as he stepped outside he found that he really didn't want the evening to end.

John seemingly shared the sentiment. He looked at him in silence as Sherlock slipped into his coat, then tilted his head.

“I'll walk you home,” he said, and Sherlock only nodded. They bumped into each other repeatedly as they strode through the streets, softly, almost curiously. One time their hands brushed, and Sherlock nearly choked on his sharp intake of breath.

The silence was comfortable, buzzing with anticipation and excitement and the promise of something more, something electrifying, _something._ Sherlock dreaded reaching his front door, knowing that the end of this affair was inevitable, that tomorrow they'd be back in the kitchen, back in their roles of instructor and trainee, and it would be good, but it wouldn't be _this._

Both of them slowed down when the door to Sherlock's flat appeared in sight. A car drove past them as they stopped, illuminating them both before leaving them in the dark.

“We're here,” John said, and Sherlock knew in that moment that something was completely, utterly wrong with him, because usually he would have mocked such a demonstration of unnecessary obviousness, but tonight he just said, “Yes.”

John blinked up at him, eyes moving over his features, dropping to his lips, remaining there before moving to his hands. Then he surprised Sherlock by taking one of his hands in his.

“Sherlock,” he said, then stopped. They both looked down to the point where their skin was touching. John's accelerated breath was the loudest sound between them. Sherlock wasn't breathing at all.

John's fingers wandered over Sherlock's hand, brushing the skin, probing and teasing at his knuckles before turning it around, straightening his fingers softly.

“Sherlock, I want...” He drifted off, fondling each of Sherlock's fingers in his hand, stroking between them, brushing the tips.

“I want to-” He shook his head, gathering the courage to look up again. His eyes were burning when they met Sherlock's, seeking confirmation of something Sherlock didn't quite understand, but desperately hoped he found there.

“No, I really, really need to,” he mumbled, apparently unaware that he never once finished the sentence.

“Need to what?” Sherlock asked, his own breathless voice sounding foreign to his ears.

His words seemed to settle it for John. He intertwined their fingers, looking up as he held Sherlock's hand in his.

“Sherlock, I want to kiss you,” he announced, his voice steady but for an indiscernible waver. He took a deep breath. “Will you let me, if I do?”

They were standing so close now. Their breathing was one, heavy, quivering with anticipation, burning in their lungs as the weight of the question lingered between them.

Instead of replying, Sherlock took a wavering step forward, effectively pressing their chests together. John tilted his head up.

“Is that a yes?” he asked, his warm breath ghosting over Sherlock's face, teasing him, hinting at what was to come.

 _“Yes,”_ Sherlock croaked, barely aware that he was making the sound, and then John's lips were on his and the air was sucked out of Sherlock's lungs.

For a long, glorious moment their mouths just touched. John's lips were warm and insistent, but gentle enough to let Sherlock dictate the pace. They both shifted and their lips slid against each other, leaving a burning trail on Sherlock's skin.

He let out a shuddering breath. On impulse his free hand came up to John's jaw. John sighed at that and Sherlock's mouth followed automatically, opening at the same time, and suddenly they were kissing deeply, sucking on wet lips, pulling and nibbling and licking into each other shyly.

John tasted faintly of soy sauce and alcohol, all mingled in the heat of his mouth, and Sherlock couldn't for the life of him imagine a better sensation. His heart hammered against his ribcage but he paid it no mind, instead stepping even closer. His mouth on John's became more insistent and John groaned into the touch, raising a hand to grip Sherlock's neck tightly.

It was clumsy and wetter than Sherlock had imagined, and it was utterly glorious. They were both panting when they broke apart, just staring at each other for one long, bleary moment. It was too dark to see properly, but Sherlock thought that John looked as flushed as he felt.

“Well,” he said, running his tongue over his lower lip, “that was-”

Sherlock didn't let him finish, attacking him with another kiss, swallowing any further sounds John made, desperately trying to catalogue every sensation, and failing. He stopped the kiss as quickly as he'd started it when his brain caught up with his actions, ducking his head. John followed him without thought, then blinked his eyes open to look at him. Sherlock was watching him breathlessly.

John giggled quietly, and the sound had to be the most wonderful thing Sherlock had ever heard.

He wanted nothing more than to wrap this moment up and take it with him everywhere he went. Better yet, he could wrap John up and do the same. Or at the very least, he could ask him to come upstairs.

He opened his mouth, but words eluded him. How to go about it? He tried to speak, but the words tumbled over each other in his mind, refusing to come out. He shook his head impatiently. He needed to think. He needed John to come with him, needed to tell him that he wanted him to.

“John, you-”

“I had a lovely night, Sherlock,” John said before he could finish the sentence, smiling at him gently. Sherlock's shoulders dropped. John knew what was right. He knew the pace that was comfortable for them. Sherlock didn't have to worry about it, because John would take care of it, always. He trusted in this fact implicitly. “Really, really lovely. Thank you.”

Sherlock let out a deep breath. “Thank you, too,” he said, his voice sounding strange over the sound of his hammering heart.

John smiled, then leaned up to brush his lips against Sherlock's one more time. It was just a soft touch, the hint of a kiss, enough to make his pulse speed up again. He drew back before Sherlock got a chance to respond.

“I'll see you tomorrow,” he breathed out, taking a step back. “Good night, Sherlock.”

He smiled and turned around, and Sherlock watched him walk away, remaining in front of his house long after he'd disappeared behind the corner.

It only occurred to him when he unlocked the door to his flat, sinking onto the bed in a disbelieving trance, that he hadn't said it back.

“Good night, John,” he said into the dark, trying out the words, imagining saying them to him in the flesh, lying next to him.

He smiled as he buried his head in his pillow, replaying the memory of the kisses in his head until he fell asleep.

* * *

Sherlock nearly bounced out of bed the next morning.

John had kissed him. John had _kissed_ him.

He closed his eyes, trying to bring back the intensity of the moment. Already he was dissatisfied with the quality of the memory, the sensations he'd managed to acknowledge before being overcome by the weight of it all. Too little data. Needed more samples.

He opened his eyes and jumped up, rushing through his morning routine, eager to get to work.

“Someone's in a good mood,” the rat said as he cracked an egg into a pan. Sherlock only hummed as he sprinkled pepper over his breakfast.

The way to work had never felt so long. Not even after the soup incident, which Sherlock refused to think about today. He was early enough to arrive before Greg, which was a first. The man seemed to _live_ at Gusteau's.

John was already there, as he'd hoped. He was still in his casual jumper and jeans, his working clothes in his hands. He looked up at the sound of the door being pushed open.

“Sherlock!” His eyebrows shot up. “You're early.”

Sherlock crossed the distance between them in quick strides, coming to stand right before him.

“Yes,” he breathed out. He looked around, but the kitchen was still empty save for the two of them. Then he fixed his eyes on John and lowered his head.

The kiss was hesitant at first, with Sherlock keeping his eyes open throughout. Though John responded immediately he drew back soon, studying his face.

John smiled. “Is that why you're here already? To get a good morning kiss?”

“Yes.” Sherlock hesitated. “If you're amenable, that is.”

“Oh, I see.” John's eyes twinkled. He put his clothes aside, bringing both of his hands up to Sherlock's face. “Good morning, then,” he mumbled, stretching up to press a kiss to Sherlock's ready mouth. Sherlock hummed into the touch of their lips, deepening it before John got a chance to draw back.

He sighed when they parted, hovering near each other for a moment.

“Good morning,” he replied.

John gave him an amused look, taking a step back to grab his clothes again. “You would have gotten one at your usual time too, you know. They aren't limited.”

“Aren't they,” Sherlock said, sounding thoughtful. “Well then.” He dipped his head for another, shorter one before letting John slip away to get changed.

The kitchen filled with their colleagues soon enough, giving the impression of just another day. But Sherlock knew better. Today was different. Today was _amazing._

A new kind of energy was flowing through him, making him buzz, driving him. Slight disappointment made itself known when John disappeared into his office in the afternoon, putting Molly in charge of his supervision.

At least it wasn't Sally. Though they managed to talk to each other without snarling by now, a friendship was nowhere near in sight.

Not that he usually had those. But then he'd met John, and John had changed... everything.

Blocking out Molly's cheerful chatter was easy, though Sherlock found himself actually listening from time to time, whenever his thoughts weren't occupied with the memory of John's lips on his.

The day progressed slowly, without much excitement. Sherlock was overflowing with zest for action, the need to do something, to prove himself, but no opportunity presented itself.

John only appeared three times throughout the day anyway, twice to talk to Sally and once to fetch Greg to discuss the new menu. Greg had been about to make a soup again, abandoning the ingredients to follow John into his office.

Sherlock straightened. He watched Greg go, knowing he'd be gone for a while, looked at the pot and the ingredients on the counter, saw the rat watching him from the corner of his eye, and suddenly he realised exactly what he had to do. This was his chance to get it right, to show John that he'd learned, that he'd gotten better. Determination set in. He straightened his shoulders.

“I'll be right back,” he said, not paying attention to whether or not Molly replied.

The rat was waiting for him beside the pot.

“Back at it again, are we?”

“I'm ready,” Sherlock muttered, raising a single eyebrow. “You know I am.”

The rat nodded, a smile appearing on its face. “Yeah. Yeah, you are. Go ahead, then. Lettuce soup?”

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded, skimming the recipe. “But not like this.”

He closed his eyes, focusing on his usual process. First the ingredients. He put them all before his inner eye, weighing up combinations and additional spices, letting his new sense take over.

He slipped into it so easily by now.

“Tarragon leaves,” he mumbled, an image of John kissing him lingering on his mind. The unexpected, wrapped up in the ordinary. “That, and chives.”

Sherlock blinked his eyes open and began to work.

He was so engrossed in the soup, chopping and stirring and seasoning, that he didn't notice Greg returning. He was suddenly standing behind him, his mouth hanging open.

“Oh, no. Not _again_. Seriously? What do you think you're doing?”

“Making a soup,” Sherlock said determinedly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

Greg inhaled sharply. “But you can't just- You can't just make a soup like that! Especially after what happened last time!” he hissed. Sherlock winced.

“I'm better now,” he argued, stirring the contents of the pot. It was almost done. It was good, he could tell. “I know how to cook.”

“You- oh, for god's sake. You wait here, I'm getting John.”

Sherlock let him go without a word, focus narrowed on the soup. He seasoned to taste one last time, rather thrilled with the outcome.

He looked up when a young waiter pushed the kitchen door open, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw him. Sherlock remembered seeing him for the first time last week. He was still new, didn't know how things worked yet.

“Greg isn't here?”

“Office,” Sherlock told him.

“Oh, never mind, then. Do you know if the soup is ready? I've got two orders.”

Sherlock's eyes shifted to the soup. He knew he didn't have a lot of time. It was now or never, before Greg returned and stopped the soup from going out.

Was it ready?

He straightened his shoulders, reaching for two plates. “Yes,” he said, “the soup is ready.”

The waiter took the plates from him, walking out of the door just as Greg returned, John only a step behind him.

“Sherlock?” he asked, frowning as his gaze wandered between him and the soup.

Sherlock took a step towards him. “John.” He smiled tentatively. “I made soup.”

John blinked at him.

“You made soup.” He raised his eyebrows. “Just like that? It didn't occur to you to ask me beforehand?”

“I wanted to show you that I can do it,” Sherlock said, refusing to back down. “I wouldn't have done it if I couldn't. Not after... last time.” He grabbed a spoon, holding it out to John pointedly. “Here. Try it.”

John gave him a slightly narrowed look, but took the spoon.

His lips twitched into a smile as he let the taste unfold on his tongue, and Sherlock knew that he had him.

“It's great,” John said, licking his lower lip. “Of course it's great.” They beamed at each other for a moment. Then John raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock bit his lip to stop the smile. He knew what was coming next.

“Now, this doesn't mean that you can just cook whatever and whenever you like in my kitchen without telling me,” John said. “We need to-”

He was interrupted by Mrs Hudson pushing the doors open.

“John!” she hissed, looking around frantically before laying eyes on him.

“Yes?” he asked, frowning at her obvious distress. “I'm here, what's wrong?”

“Oh, John,” she said, walking towards him. “Do you know who's here?”

“Who?”

“Irene Adler,” she whispered. John visibly paled.

“Who? Who's Irene Adler?” Sherlock looked between them, frowning when nobody reacted. “Why are you all looking like this? What's so special about this customer?”

“She's not just a customer,“ Molly said, stepping closer from behind him. She fiddled with her apron. “She's a critic.”

Oh.

John shook off his stillness. “Has she ordered yet?”

Mrs Hudson nodded. "She just got her plate."

“What is she having?”

“Greg's soup,” she said, and Sherlock felt like she'd just punched him in the guts.

“Greg's soup,” John repeated. He closed his eyes, pinching his nose. “You mean Sherlock's.”

“I- what?” Her eyes widened. “Oh, no. Again?”

Sherlock squirmed under her gaze. “It doesn't matter,” he said, though uncertainty crept into his voice. “The soup is good, I know it is. I didn't mess it up this time. It's alright, isn't it?”

“That depends,” Sally said, crossing her arms. “This is Irene Adler we're talking about. She's ruthless. _Le Parisien_ titled her “The Dominatrix of Gastronomy” last year.” Sherlock blinked and Sally added, “Because she has everyone in the industry on their knees.”

Sherlock swallowed. “Oh.” He sought out John's gaze, taking a deep breath when their eyes met. “John, I-”

“It's alright, Sherlock,” John said. He didn't sound angry, but his voice was spiked with anxiety, as clear on his face as in his stance. “It's done now. It could have happened to any of us.”

A moment of silence passed.

“I suppose now we wait,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Yeah.” John sighed. “Now we wait.”

It was impossible for Sherlock to focus on anything else as they went back to work, and he could tell from John's expression that his head wasn't in it either. They both straightened when Mrs Hudson came back in, heading straight for them.

“And?” John asked at the same time as Sherlock said, “What did she say?“

“Nothing. She just- she ate, and then she left.“

John closed his eyes. “Oh my god,” he muttered. “What did she look like? Was she smiling? Did she finish the plate?”

“She wasn't smiling. But she did finish before she left.”

“Well.” John ran a hand over his face. “That's... something.” He sighed. “Alright, well, there's nothing for it. We'll just have to wait and see. Everyone, carry on as usual, please.”

And they did. Anticipation lay over the kitchen like a heavy cover as they moved on. Nobody really knew what to do as they waited for word from Irene Adler. The minutes ticked away like hours, leaving Sherlock restless and impatient for days.

Until Greg stormed into the kitchen two days later, a newspaper in his hands.

“Fresh from the printer,” he said, breathing heavily as he pushed it into John's hands. Sherlock dropped his spoon, crossing the distance between them in seconds.

“What does it say?” John asked tersely, but Greg shook his head. “I didn't look. You should do it.”

John blinked at the paper, then opened it, leafing through it until he reached the right page.

“Ah,” he said. He caught Sherlock's eyes over the papers, then looked down again. “An unexpected turn of events,” he read the caption, then cleared his throat.

“My visit at Gusteau's last Friday didn't quite turn out as I had anticipated. Going in, I'd assumed to leave again within an hour, born out in my, shall we say, low opinion of the restaurant's quality. Not feeling like having a heavy meal in order for that realisation to set in, I ordered a soup. I did come out of Gusteau's within an hour, but as a different person than when I'd gone in.

"Though I, like many other critics, had written off Gusteau's as irrelevant since the great chef's death, the soup was something else. A revelation, you might say. The subtle, yet outstanding taste experience rendered me speechless. Like a lover's faint kiss still lingering on your lips, it brought something out in me I didn't know was there.

"Against all odds, Gusteau's has recaptured our attention, and thoroughly so. Only time will tell if they deserve it.“

John lowered the paper and glanced around, his eyes catching on Sherlock's.

“Well,” he breathed out, folding the paper before taking a step towards him. “There's only one thing to say, isn't there?” He shook his head, licking his lips as he looked at him. “You're _brilliant,_ Sherlock. Brilliant, is what you are.”

And then he pulled him down by his collar, kissing him in front of the entire team.

* * *

It appeared that Sherlock hadn't thought this through properly. Proving to John that he was capable was one thing. Now, though... now, things were expected of him. Not just by John. By everyone. By Greg, and Molly, Mrs Hudson, even Sally.

And, perhaps most unexpected of all, by _customers._

After Irene Adler's review the soup had become an instant hit, earning him a safe place on the menu.

What he hadn't been prepared for, though, was Mrs Hudson coming in one night with a flustered expression, pulling him aside.

“Sherlock, dear, there's a customer, she's asking for you!”

Sherlock blinked. “For me?”

“Yes! Well, for your food. She loves your soup, she said, and she wants something else of yours. Something new, something not on the menu.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it again when words eluded him. He tried to swallow. “Um.”

“Oh, don't worry, dear. We'll just get John, he'll know what to do!”

Sherlock nodded as she bustled away, calling John's name. He only moved again when John's steps sounded behind him, and a moment later, his voice.

“Sherlock? What's going on?”

He turned around, clearing his throat. “A customer wants me to cook her something.”

John's eyebrows shot up. “Really? She wants- something? As in, something other than the soup?”

He nodded mutely.

“Wow.” John exhaled slowly, giving him a long look. “Well, Sherlock. Then this is your chance of trying something worthy of your talent.”

Sherlock searched his face, but he seemed genuine. No traces of worry were in his features.

“You think so? You think I should?”

The corner of John's mouth went up. “I think there's no reason why you shouldn't. You're extraordinary, and you're a good cook, and most importantly, you're ready. I've been keeping you from our customers long enough, hm?”

Sherlock blinked, fiddling with his own hands. “I- okay. Okay.” He took a deep breath. “I'll do it.”

John reached out, squeezing his arm. The touch was grounding enough for Sherlock to relax marginally. “I'm there if you need me,” he assured him, and Sherlock nodded.

“Okay.”

John smiled, then gave a nod as well. “So. Any ideas?”

Sherlock pursed his lips, going through the recipes he'd catalogued. None of them fit, seemed right somehow.

He blinked at John and their eyes locked, and suddenly he knew what it had to be, that it could only be this.

“Ratatouille,” he said, and John raised his eyebrows, but nodded.

“Alright. If you're sure?”

“Yes.”

“Ratatouille it is, then.”

John went to fetch the necessary ingredients while Sherlock got a pot, and then he began to cook. He didn't need John's assistance, since he could hardly do anything to help with the sensation of his stomach tying itself in knots. But he appreciated his lingering presence by his side, chopping something for him here or there, stirring when Sherlock was occupied otherwise.

Everything went well until he came to the casserole.

He was staring down at it, suddenly hesitating in his movements. The casserole seemed to stare back, getting bigger and deeper and appearing to swallow him whole. Sherlock swallowed, wiping his palms on his apron. They still felt wet. He took a deep breath, acutely aware of his heart pressing against his ribcage from the inside, hammering in what seemed to become a more and more insistent rhythm.

“Sherlock?”

He vaguely registered John's voice, realised that it was him, not the rat, but found himself unable to reply. He inhaled sharply, trying to fight against the numbness coming over him. His head shot around when John put a hand around his wrist.

“Hey, what's wrong?”

Answer. Breathe. “I can't do it,” Sherlock got out, suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of his words. “I can't do it, John. I don't know how.”

His eyes found John's, settling on them like they were an anchor, a lifeline. John's brow knitted.

“What are you talking about? Hey, you know how to do this. You know how to cook. You just do what you've done before.”

He shook his head vehemently. “I don't know how. I don't know _how._ “

“Hey, hey, it's alright! It's alright. You're fine. I need you to calm down, Sherlock.”

John's soft voice, tinged with concern, washed over him, and Sherlock took a shuddering breath, closing his eyes.

The rat was waiting for him in his Mind Palace.

“Really, Sherlock?” it snarled, and the oily quality of Mycroft's voice made him shiver.

“No, no,” he hissed, shaking his head. “Not you. Not you!”

He turned around and tried to push the door open, but couldn't get it to move. He pounded against the door, then turned around, his back pressed to the cool metal.

“I can't do it. I forgot what to do, I can't do it.”

“Oh, this does take me back,” the rat pondered. “The slow little brother. Not so clever after all, are you?”

“Shut up!”

“Sherlock,” the rat said, and its gaze seemed to bore into Sherlock's eyes. He stilled. “What is this about? You didn't just _forget_ everything. That's not possible.”

“But I _did_."

“No. Tell me what is happening. Analyse it.”

Sherlock shut his eyes. “I'm panicking. I'm afraid.”

“Good.” The rat nodded. “Why?”

“I don't know.”

“No, Sherlock. Why?”

Sherlock exhaled slowly. “It's irrational. I wasn't prepared. I don't want to fail. I can't fail.”

“Why the hell would you fail?”

Sherlock blinked his eyes open when the voice changed. The soft, gentle tone resonated down his spine in a comforting way, grounding him in the moment.

“Because human beings fail, and I never knew how to cook, I'm not Mycroft, I can't-”

“Who said anything about Mycroft?” the rat interrupted, shaking its head. “Mycroft isn't the one cooking. You are. And you know how to do it.”

“But what if I don't? What if I- what made me think I could do this, that I could cook?”

“I did,” John's voice said. “And you did.”

“Me,” Sherlock repeated.

“Yes, you. You did it. You learned how to cook. You're doing it right now. Everything is going alright. There's absolutely no reason to panic. Deep breaths, okay?”

Sherlock nodded, inhaling sharply. “Okay.”

“Now, the Ratatouille. What's making you so unsure about it?”

“I don't know. It's something, something missing, something I haven't-” He broke off, staring at nothing as the solution came together.

“Lemon thyme and sage,” he said, and his eyes flew open, bringing him back to the kitchen.

“Lemon thyme and- sage?” John was staring at him in concern.

“Yes, yes, that!” Sherlock exclaimed, whirling around as he fetched what he needed.

“Sherlock, are you alright?” John asked, gripping his shoulder. The touch sparked something in Sherlock, driving him even more.

“Fine, fine,” he said, giving a brief smile in his direction before focusing on the dish again.

“Okay,” John muttered after a moment, taking a hesitant step back. “Alright. What do you need that for?”

“For the Ratatouille, John,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “Keep up.”

John frowned. “But it's not in the recipe. And we didn't add that when we made it together.”

“No, no, but it has to be this, don't you see?”

“I- no, I don't, to be honest. But, Sherlock, this is no time for improvising. Stick to what you know, you can experiment another day.”

“Not experimenting,” Sherlock mumbled distractedly, giving the Ratatouille the final touch before filling it into the casserole.

He distantly heard John being called away by Greg, leaving him to finish cleaning up while the stew was in the oven. He returned when the timer went off, standing next to Sherlock as he took the casserole out of the oven.

John watched him wordlessly as he added some basil topping, positioning the leaves with care.

He was just in time for Mrs Hudson, presenting her with the finished plate the second she appeared next to him.

Sherlock only realised when she'd taken the plate outside that his chest was heaving. He closed his eyes briefly, feeling the rush ebb away as his pulse calmed down, then sought ought John's gaze. He was looking at him with a crease between his eyebrows, but nodded.

“Alright,” he said, reaching out to touch his hand. “You're alright.”

Sherlock nodded, swallowing. He touched his forehead and frowned when his hand came away wet. He grabbed a towel, then stepped towards the door to peek into the dining room.

The customer had received the plate and was looking at the dish with interest. Sherlock held his breath as she raised the fork to her mouth. A surprised look came over her as she chewed. Mrs Hudson walked past her and she called out, waving her over. They talked for a brief moment, then Mrs Hudson made her way towards the kitchen.

The room was deadly quiet when she entered. Everyone was waiting for her to speak. Sherlock found it inexplicably hard to breathe.

“Well,” she said, and then she stepped directly in front of Sherlock and closed her arms around him.

Sherlock was startled into absolute stillness.

“Mrs Hudson?” he asked hesitantly, his heart beating inside his chest with every painful breath. “What did she say?”

“Oh, Sherlock,” she said, and when she drew back, a huge smile was lighting up her face. “She adores it! She asked whether it would be on the menu regularly. She told me to give you her highest compliments.” She sniffed suspiciously, wiping at her face. “Oh, I'm so _proud_ of you.”

Sherlock swallowed, trying to process the situation, and failing.

He'd made a dish. He, Sherlock Holmes, had cooked a meal at the request of a customer, and she'd loved it. She'd adored it.

He'd done it. He had _cooked._

“We all are,” John said, and Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts, turning to look at him.

“John-” he began, and then John pulled him into his arms. The comforting warmth engulfed him, and he closed his eyes as a wave of something strong, something he couldn't name, crashed over him. “I'm proud of you,” John repeated, more quietly, for his ears only. Then he drew back slightly, taking his face in his hands before kissing him gently.

His lips tingled when John pulled back. He tried to protest, but then two arms closed around him from the side, while a big hand clapped his back almost painfully.

“I knew you could do it,” Molly whispered, squeezing once before letting go. Greg grinned at him.

“Come a long way, eh? Well done, Sherlock!”

Sherlock blinked, looking between them. His eyes fell on John, his amused smile, and he relaxed marginally.

“Thank you,” he said, and realised that he meant it.

They group dissolved soon after that, with more dishes to cook and meals to prepare. At the end of their shift, however, Greg called into the room, “I don't know about you lot, but I'm done for the day, we've got tomorrow off, and I'm in desperate need of a drink. Anyone with me?”

They ended up going to a rustic pub two streets away that Sherlock would never have chosen, but he found that he didn't mind so much. Greg bought a round for everyone, starting a toast for Sherlock that took him by surprise. John nudged his side as he raised his glass, placing a kiss on his cheek before taking a sip. A warm feeling pooled in Sherlock's belly.

When groups started to form soon after that John pulled him along to the counter, ordering a pint of beer. They sat on the bar stools, watching the others for a while.

John was moving the tip of his finger over the rim of his glass. “So. Ratatouille.” He blinked up at him. Sherlock pursed his lips, waiting for the question. “Why?”

“It was our first dish,” he said, eyes on the counter. “The first one we cooked together.”

Sentiment. Wasn't it curious, how his past self would have laughed at him now? _Emotion and cooking don't work together._ How utterly wrong he'd been. How laughable he found his past assumptions now.

John's hand touched his, squeezing once, causing him to look up. His features were soft and he was leaning close to Sherlock, smiling like he was looking at something utterly precious.

“Thank you,” he said softly, then leaned in to brush their lips together. Sherlock pressed up against John, sighing into the touch as the strain of the day's stress seemed to melt from him.

“For what?” he asked when they parted, gazing into John's eyes.

“Just... so. For being you.” John shrugged, suddenly looking a little self-conscious. Sherlock squeezed his hand, staring at the point where their skin connected.

A moment of silence passed between them as John took a sip from his beer and Sherlock braced himself for something he'd been meaning to do all night.

“I'm sorry about earlier,” he finally said, his eyes flickering to John's.

John put down his glass, giving him a long look. “Yeah, that. It turned out alright, didn't it? It's fine. I just don't understand what happened.“

Sherlock swallowed. He worried his lip, debating what to say. He caught John's eyes and suddenly he felt tired, tired of pretending. He didn't want to lie to him anymore. John deserved the truth. He deserved... a _partner_ who would tell him the truth, always.

“It's... this thing. I do. Um. I- I could show you.“ John's eyebrows went up. He nodded slowly.

“Okay,” he said, narrowing his eyes as he gave him a long look. “When you say 'thing you do', do you mean...”

He trailed off, chewing his lip in concern. Sherlock frowned, then sat up as he realised what he was implying.

“No! No, no, nothing like that. Nothing illegal.”

He wouldn't go there. Not now, not with John.

John looked relieved. “Okay,” he said, licking his lips. “Alright then. Show me.“

Sherlock exhaled slowly. “You could come by my flat tomorrow,” he suggested. “I'll... explain.”

John nodded. “Around noon?” he asked, and Sherlock nodded as well. He squeezed his hand, making himself cherish the feeling, hoping that he would still get to do that tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Chinese restaurant is made up, sadly. I'd sure love to go there!
> 
> I don't know how popular cinnamon in savoury dishes is in other cultures, but I know it from Turkish cooking and I really enjoy it! I thought it was appropriate to have Sherlock think of it, since it's probably an unusual choice in France :)


	3. Main Course: Canard à l'orange

The minutes until John arrived seemed to drag on for ages. Sherlock hadn't slept much, too worked up to even begin to relax. He was now pacing in his kitchen, his hallway, before his windows, impatiently waiting for John to show up while dreading the moment at the same time.

This may very well mean the end of their short... whatever it could be called. Was it a relationship if it had lasted less than a week? Had it ever been one at all? They'd shared one evening and a handful of kisses. The rest was working time. It was John's job to engage with him then, so that didn't really count.

Sherlock spun around when the doorbell rang, restraining himself from rushing to get it, John's words from their date night still fresh in his mind.

He opened the door after an appropriate amount of time, straightening his shoulders when John appeared on the stairs.

“Hey,” he said when he stood before him.

“Hello,” Sherlock got out. He stared at him for a moment, at a loss as to what to do. John took matters in his hands by stretching up to peck Sherlock's cheek.

“You alright there?” he asked, and Sherlock hurried to nod. He tried to conceal the anxiety on his features, stepping aside to let John in.

It only occurred to him that John hadn't seen the interior of his flat before when he saw him looking around curiously, taking in his surroundings. He chastised himself for not having cleaned up beforehand. Especially the kitchen.

“So this is what your flat looks like,” John said. “I did wonder.”

He had? “Oh. Well, yes.” Sherlock eyed him for another moment. He didn't say anything else, but Sherlock thought that he saw him smile in approval.

He cleared his throat. “Tea?”

John looked up from his bookshelf. “Yeah, that'd be lovely. Thanks.”

He followed him into the kitchen, taking in the mess of food, spices and utensils. His only reaction was the raise of an eyebrow.

Sherlock prepared two cups of tea, holding one out to John with a hesitant half-smile when he was done.

“Thanks.” John smiled as well, then blew on the surface. Sherlock's smile grew at the endearing act. It faded, however, when John put his cup down.

“So.”

All right, then. It was time. Sherlock mirrored his movement. “So,” he repeated. He narrowed his eyes, blinking at the floor, then at John's shoulder. He took a deep breath, bracing himself for the inevitable.

“I have this... um.” He bit his lip. His eyes flickered to John, who was giving him an encouraging look. “There's this, well, thing. I have. It's a ra- uh.” He shook his head slightly. “I have a ra...” he tried again, but the word wouldn't come out.

John knitted his brow, giving him a concerned look. “You have a... rash?”

Oh god, no. Sherlock shook his head fervently. “No! No, no. This, a, well. It's a tiny... That is, I have a tiny...” John raised his eyebrows, his eyes flickering downwards. Sherlock's ears burned.

“A tiny rat chef,” he blurted out. “Who tells me what... to do.”

John stared at him. He kept staring for a long moment, blinking as he tried to process what he'd just heard. What he eventually said was, “What.”

“I can explain.” Sherlock clasped his hands together. “There's a memory technique called Memory Palace, or Mind Palace. It's a place, any place, that you construct in your mind and fill with information. Mine has several rooms, and each room holds information about different topics. Information can be stored in features of the room, such as furniture, pieces of decoration, or even avatars of... living things.”

He paused, and John nodded, signing him to continue. “My entire knowledge about cooking is stored in the rat illustration from Gusteau's cookbook. It... interacts with me, guides me when I'm unsure.”

His eyes never left John's face as he spoke, watching him in a silent plea to understand.

John had listened attentively, reaching for his tea at some point. He emptied the cup, then turned it over in his hands.

“So, just to clarify, that Mind Palace thing of yours, it comes in the shape of... a rat. The rat from my uncle's cookbook.”

Sherlock nodded. “When I'm cooking, yes.”

“And it tells you what to do while you're in the kitchen, because it's all the information you have on the subject, packed in one... avatar?”

Sherlock nodded again. John licked his lips. “Sherlock, that's brilliant.”

Sherlock blinked. “It is?”

“Of course it is, yeah.” He shook his head. “Blimey.” Relief washed over Sherlock as John's shoulders dropped and he relaxed, apparently having accepted the explanation. “And I thought it was me who was helping you with your cooking.”

“You are,” Sherlock blurted out. “I mean, you were. You _are_ ,” he insisted.

John gave him a surprised smile, evidently pleased by his words. Then he asked, “Can you show me how it works? Can I see?”

Sherlock's eyebrows rose. “If you want to?”

“Course I do.”

So Sherlock showed him.

“Pick a dish. Any dish,” he said. John eyed his stock of food. “Ragout,” he decided.

Sherlock nodded, already reaching for the right pot.

It was strange, not trying to hide the rat in someone else's presence for the first time. But John kept looking at Sherlock with an adoring expression, and soon he slipped into the right mindset, consulting with rat John and real John alike.

He stirred one last time before holding out the spoon to John, raising an eyebrow. “Try it.”

John leaned forward to taste the ragout, closing his eyes briefly.

“Amazing,” he said, gazing at him through his lashes, and Sherlock gloated.

“Another one?” he asked, and John's pleased smile was enough answer. They cooked and experimented and discussed for hours, and once they'd eaten as much as they could they slumped onto the sofa together.

They were already on their fourth cup of tea, and John was sitting even closer to Sherlock than the narrowness of the sofa justified.

Sherlock was moving his thumb over the rim of his cup, watching him with a crease on his forehead. “You don't mind, then?”

“Mind you being brilliant? That your cooking is so fantastic? Dating someone who's so extraordinary?” John chuckled. “Not particularly, no.”

He put down his cup, somehow ending up even closer to Sherlock as he straightened again. “I mean, it's quite unusual, but I'd be lying if I said it was the strangest thing I've ever seen. And anyway,” he said, his voice low, their mouths only inches apart, “it's goddamn sexy, if you don't mind me saying.”

His eyes dropped to Sherlock's lips and his eyelids fluttered shut as he leaned in, grazing his mouth softly before kissing him in a way that left Sherlock struggling for air.

He broke the kiss reluctantly, his chest heaving as he asked, “It is?”

“Oh god, yes,” John mumbled, leaning in again before Sherlock got a chance to reply. Their position was too awkward to maintain for any longer amount of time, but Sherlock would be damned if he cut any of this short.

He slid down the sofa until his back hit the armrest, pulling John with him. He ended up half on top of him, his knees bracketing Sherlock's hips, and Sherlock felt the blood rushing downwards at the close proximity of their crotches. He wrapped his arms around John's neck, drawing him closer. John complied happily, his chest pressing against Sherlock's, his fingers moving to his hair, entangling themselves with his curls.

“God,” John muttered as he broke the kiss for air, “you make me crazy.”

“A good kind of crazy?” Sherlock asked, equally breathless, and John moved away from his lips.

“The best kind.” He pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses along his jaw and down his neck, drawing a low groan from Sherlock as he reached the juncture of his neck and his shoulder. He looked up at the sound and they both stilled.

“John,” Sherlock panted, his hand grasping at his shirt. “John, you don't- don't stop that.”

John looked at him with his mouth slightly open, flushed from their kissing, an almost pained expression on his face. “Sherlock, I don't think I can- for much longer, I mean, I...” He trailed off, swallowing hard. Sherlock nodded, trying to convey that he understood, that he felt the same.

“I know,” he said, “I know, John, it's not- we can go on. We don't have to stop then.”

John stared at him unmovingly and Sherlock, tired of waiting, lifted his head to kiss him, pulling him down with him again. He bucked his hips, making John gasp into his mouth as their half-hard cocks rubbed against each other.

“You mean-”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, interrupting himself to suck on John's lower lip. “Yes. If you're amenable.”

“Yes,” John groaned, licking his lips. “Yeah, absolutely. Okay. Um, just for the record, I'm clean. In case you don't have anything here."

"I know. We both are," Sherlock mumbled, kissing John's jaw. Regular blood tests were mandatory for those working at Gusteau's. The advantages of that were evident now.

"Okay. Good. That's settled, then. That's- um, do you- I mean, here?”

Sherlock frowned with impatience, John's body pressing against him leaving him really rather eager to get on with it, but he had to admit that John had a point.

“My bed is bigger,” he pointed out, and John nodded fervently.

“Alright, yes. Let's go there, then.” They got up, briefly held up by Sherlock stealing a heart-stopping kiss, then stumbled to the bedroom.

John attacked him with another one of the kind before Sherlock had any chance to feel awkward, and they lowered themselves on the bed together, impatiently pushing the duvet away.

Sherlock's fingers moved to John's shirt, fiddling with his buttons until he could push it off his shoulders.

John stilled beneath his exploring hands and Sherlock drew back, following his example. John was wearing an unreadable expression, pursing his lips as he looked at him.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked.

Instead of replying, John took one of his hands in his and guided him to his shoulder. Sherlock's eyes followed the movement as the thick scar tissue rubbed against his fingertips.

“Not very pretty, I'm afraid.”

Sherlock frowned, his gaze flickering to John's face. “I knew about your wound,” he said.

“Knowing is different than seeing.”

“It makes no difference to me,” Sherlock declared, moving his fingers over the scar. He rubbed and probed at the reddened flesh, stilling when John inhaled sharply.

“Not good?”

“No, just... unusual.”

Sherlock moved over the scar one last time, then dropped his hand. Another day.

“John,” he growled, effectively recapturing his attention, “I'm not the experienced one between us, but I believe this is the part where we take off the rest of our clothes.”

John's lips curved into a smirk. “Oh, is it?” he mumbled, teasing him with a soft brush of lips that had him grasping at the sheet beneath him. “You don't have any experiences, then?” he mumbled, hands moving to Sherlock's buttons, opening them as if he had all the time in the world.

“No,” Sherlock breathed out, watching John undress him. He sat up when he reached the bottom of his shirt. “Nothing worth mentioning. Problem?”

“No problem at all,” John simply said, pushing the shirt off him.

They continued undressing, kissing and licking whichever part of each other they could reach in the process, until they were both naked except for their pants. John drew back a little, seeking Sherlock's gaze until he was certain that he had his undivided attention.

“Are you sure?” he asked, and Sherlock nodded.

“I want to hear you say it,” John whispered, licking his lips. “Please.”

“I'm sure,” Sherlock said, sliding a hand down John's truly appealing chest. He had more hair than Sherlock there, but not enough to actually be considered hairy. Sherlock deemed it the perfect amount as his fingers brushed over it. “I want you. I want to have sex with you. Right now, if that's alright.”

John groaned and moved to kiss Sherlock again, licking over his already swollen lips, and Sherlock's hands moved to his pants, sliding beneath the thin fabric in a bold move, ghosting over the erect flesh. John nearly hissed, letting him pull down the pants before disposing of them. Then he reached for Sherlock's hips. He lowered his head to kiss his belly as he pulled his pants down, licking over his hipbone as his erection bobbed up.

“God, you're beautiful,” he sighed, moving back up to bury his face in the crook of his neck. Sherlock nearly whined, yearning for a touch to his aching cock.

“Patience,” John mumbled upon hearing the change in his breathing. Then he started licking over his pulse. Sherlock gasped, moving his head to grant him better access. But John didn't stay there for long, moving over his jaw to his lips and his cheekbones, alternating between kissing and licking. He sucked so hard on Sherlock's neck that he thought (hoped) he would leave a bruise, the idea alone sending shivers down his spine. He moved to his collarbones, the spot where his heart beat beneath his ribs, before closing his lips around a nipple and sucking.

Sherlock's back arched off the mattress. He gasped, staring down with his mouth hanging open.

“Oh god,” he panted, “I didn't know- don't stop, John.” He felt John's lips curve into a smirk around him. He drew back soon, this time drawing a whine from Sherlock.

He brought a hand to his wet nipple, playing and twirling and pinching ever so slightly. Then he moved to the other one, repeating the procedure. Sherlock was breathing with his mouth hanging open, grasping at John's shoulder.

“Please,” he gasped, not knowing what he was asking for, his head swimming with the sensation. John seemed to understand, though. He sat back, running his hand over the light hair on Sherlock's chest before easing off again, moving down his stomach with hot, wet kisses. His tongue twirled inside Sherlock's belly button before he continued to make his way down, kissing each of his hipbones before reaching the trail of dark hair.

“You're so beautiful, Sherlock,” he mumbled, and then his hand wrapped around Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock let out a deep, relieved groan. He bucked his hands, pushing into John's touch, his eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of warm friction, of _John_ touching him like this. John kissed all around his cock and the insides of his quivering thighs, stroking him in a slow rhythm.

“We should get lube for next time,” he mumbled before sucking a love bite onto his thigh, and Sherlock tried to take a mental note, only that his mind seemed to blank completely at the prospect of _next time._

“John,” he gasped, repeating his name twice as his hands reached for his head, his shoulders, urging him to come back up to where Sherlock could see him, could kiss him while he worked his cock.

John chuckled, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's erection before moving back up, swallowing the moan Sherlock let out at that in a hot, open-mouthed kiss. He licked his lips when they broke apart, eyes fixed on Sherlock's face as he changed the rhythm of his strokes.

“Like that?” he mumbled, watching him closely, and Sherlock nodded, wrapping a leg around his waist, exposing himself further on instinct. He could tell by the way John's breath sped up that the act turned him on, but was too far gone to examine why.

He felt his own breathing lose its rhythm as a pleasurable heat began to build in his stomach, stretching farther and farther into his limbs. He keened under John's touch, ejecting a low moan.

He'd never given himself over to physical pleasure like this, but giving up control was easy now. It was the only possible choice, with John this close to him, touching him. His skin seemed to be on fire where it was in direct contact with his, sticking together with sweat and heat and their mingled cells.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, letting out a string of incoherent sounds. John growled above him.

“That's it,” he mumbled, licking over his nipple and his chest encouragingly. “That's it, love, that's gorgeous. You're so gorgeous. Are you close? You look like you're close.”

“I'm close,” Sherlock got out, and then words eluded him. He gripped John's good shoulder with one hand, pushing into the hair at the back of his neck with the other.

“Ahh,” he made, an embarrassingly loud sound, but John echoed him and changed up his speed, adding a twirl at the head, spreading the liquid Sherlock was leaking, and when his thumb brushed over his slit, Sherlock was done for. He felt the vast sensation in every part of his body as he came, his cells seeming to explode in white light. John stroked him through it, cupping his cheek, muttering sweet nothings as his orgasm crashed over him in waves.

Sherlock distantly registered that he was making sounds, but the force of his pleasure drowned everything out that didn't boil down to John's touch on his skin.

“I got you,” he mumbled as Sherlock shuddered, clutching at his shoulder, his nails digging into his skin. “It's alright. I've got you.”

“John,” Sherlock gasped as words returned to him, momentarily tightening his grip on him as wonderful, absolute satisfaction took hold of him. “John, you-”

He cut himself off by reaching for his face, pulling him down for a world-shattering kiss that left them both panting into each other's mouth.

“That was the hottest thing I've ever seen,” John mumbled against his lips in wonder. Sherlock blinked his eyes open, realising through his layers of haziness that John's cock was still very much erect and, at the moment, leaking onto Sherlock's stomach, adding to his own mess.

He pushed himself up, determined not to neglect John any further after he'd taken care of him so thoroughly.

“Now you,” he said, catching his lips in a lingering kiss before gently pushing him onto the mattress. John looked relieved, letting himself be handled until Sherlock was hovering over him, pinning him down with his gaze.

He tentatively reached down, eyes flickering to John's cock before he looked up again, watching his reaction as his fingers closed around his flesh. John shut his eyes and groaned, licking his lips.

“Oh god,” he said through his panting, “I'm not gonna take long. That- ah, god, that's amazing.”

Sherlock's eyes moved down again, an idea forming in his mind, a desire to explore, to _taste._

“John,” he said, his voice still rough, and John seemed to keen at the deep sound.

“Yeah,” he panted, opening his eyes to blink at him.

“I want to try something,” Sherlock muttered. Then he slid down, holding John's cock at the base. He only took one look at his face before lowering his head, closing his mouth around him. His eyes fell shut as the sensations flooded him, his unique, concentrated taste registered in his mouth, his musky smell filled his nose.

John made a sound that came out as a shout, fidgeting with his hands for a moment before loosely settling them on Sherlock's head.

A spark went through Sherlock at that, and a pleasant tingle spread in him when John's fingers slid into his curls, running through them without much coordination, simply aiming to feel.

Sherlock went about halfway down, then drew back when breathing became difficult, sucking at the head. John groaned, burying his face in the crook of his elbow. Sherlock watched him through his lashes.

He took a deep breath before lowering himself again, going so far down that he nearly choked. Clearly he still had to polish his blowjob technique, but seeing as John was halfway out of his mind with writhing and gasping, he decided that it would do for now.

He went up and down again a few more times, drawing back entirely to lick from the root to the tip, and then he abandoned any attempts at finesse, sucking hard, commiting the salty taste of John's wet cock, the fluid, the skin, to his memory.

“Sherlock,” John said urgently, and even without the warning Sherlock could tell that he was getting close from the way his cock leaked into his mouth, the way his balls tightened. He hummed around him, bobbing lower to take as much of him in as he could without gagging again, and John went rigid.

Sherlock drew his head back slowly, his lips sliding up to the tip, his tongue swirling around it in a way he could sense would give John the rest. 

He wasn't exactly opposed to keeping him in his mouth throughout, but John took matters into his own hands, pulling out and away from Sherlock a second before he was coming. Sherlock immediately reached for his cock again, still slick with his saliva, to close his hand around him and stroke him through his orgasm. John's come spurted between them, onto John's quivering stomach and Sherlock's fingers.

John's eyes were closed and his chest heaved as he came down from the waves of pleasure. Sherlock loosened his fingers from his softening flesh, aware of the possible hypersensitivity. He glanced at his coated fingers, raising them to his lips tentatively.

The smell was almost like his own, not exactly pleasant. Curiosity outweighed instinct though, and his tongue darted out, licking a droplet from his hand. The taste wasn't what Sherlock would deem enjoyable either, but it was so uniquely and completely John that he decided that he wouldn't mind having him climax in his mouth. He could taste him so intensely, could discern the differences between his own semen and John's, the taste, the texture, the look. It was maddeningly fascinating.

John was moving and Sherlock abandoned thoughts of cataloguing his release for now, crawling over him in a second. He settled on his hips, watching him until John blinked his eyes open and his gaze focused on Sherlock's face.

Their eyes locked, and Sherlock was leaning down to seal their lips together before John could say more than the beginning of his name.

The kiss was sticky and slick and fueled by the smell of sex still heavy between them. Sherlock refused to let go of John until he nudged him softly, mumbling against his mouth, “Sherlock.”

Sherlock drew back just enough to say, “John.”

“I need to tell you,” John said, fingers moving up to his hair to swipe an errant curl out of his forehead, “that was absolutely spectacular.”

Sherlock felt himself beaming at John, saw it mirrored in John's expression as he looked back at him. He probably looked idiotic like this. He couldn't be bothered to care.

“I agree,” he said, moving to nibble at John's jaw, rubbing his skin against the slight stubble the evening had brought with it. “How fast do you think you can go again?”

John laughed, the high-pitched sound making his chest vibrate, and Sherlock rested his head over his heart, letting it go through him.

“We should probably get cleaned up,” John sighed instead of giving a reply. Sherlock groaned, burying his face in his neck. Leaving the bed was the last thing he wanted to do now, but _John_ leaving the bed was simply unacceptable. He rolled onto his side, slipping from the bed.

“Stay where you are,” he called over his shoulders, padding into the bathroom to fetch a towel.

John hummed, lying outstretched on the bed. “Not going anywhere,” he mumbled.

Though Sherlock hurried to get back to him, his eyes got caught on the sight of himself in the mirror. He blinked at the image he presented, raising an eyebrow as he looked at himself.

His cheeks were flushed, and his hair was in a downright state of chaos. He inspected his neck, rubbing his finger over the bruise John had sucked there. He looked up, meeting his own eyes in the reflection, and was taken aback by the expression his face displayed. It wasn't just the huge smile, stretching his lips over his face so widely that it should have looked ridiculous. It was the gleam in his eyes, betraying the utter bliss he felt.

It wasn't a bad look on him at all. 

He took one last look at his hair, decided that he liked it that way, and returned to the bedroom.

John was still on his back, reaching out for him as he lowered himself on the mattress.

“Thank you,” he mumbled when Sherlock kneeled beside him, wiping the sticky fluids away with care. Sleepiness was settling in his features, and Sherlock only noticed his own exhaustion as he watched John's eyelids growing heavier.

“You're welcome,” he said, giving himself a quick wipe before tossing the towel away and snuggling up to John. Their arms came around each other naturally, and for a while neither of them spoke. The sound of John's heart beating beneath his ear was enough to keep Sherlock occupied.

When John's breathing evened out he nudged him, waiting for him to react.

“Will you stay?” Sherlock mumbled when John hummed, only realising that he'd tightened his grip on him when John rolled onto his side and pulled him closer.

“Course I'll stay,” he muttered, burying his nose in the crook of Sherlock's neck. “Wouldn't wanna be anywhere else,” he added, the words coming out slurred as his eyes closed again, and Sherlock let out a deep exhale.

John feel asleep like that, and that was how Sherlock discovered the joys of sleeping in a bed with someone he trusted. When John stirred in the morning he was already awake, and that was how Sherlock discovered the joys of morning sex, and closed-mouthed kisses, and shared coffee and sleepy smiles over the breakfast table.

And there were a lot of those from then on. Sherlock never grew tired of the sight of John in his flat, whether he came over on their free day, walked home with him after work, or woke up in his bed.

And though they'd neither intended for their relationship to be a secret nor public knowledge, the press was catching on after a while.

“Sherlock Holmes, the rising star of Gusteau's, is rumoured to be dating John Watson, the owner and heir of the restaurant,” John read aloud from a newspaper one evening, sitting cross-legged on the sofa. “Neither of them has confirmed or denied this supposed relationship, keeping everyone guessing. Is it true love or just a publicity stunt? Only time will tell.” John lowered the paper. “Look at them, getting all worked up. As if it's this big thing, waiting to be uncovered so they can write an article on it.”

“Well, I _am_ dating the owner and heir of Gusteau's restaurant,” Sherlock said, smirking when he caught his gaze. “It's a very big thing for me, John.”

John dropped the paper, moving around to close his arms around Sherlock, nuzzling his cheek. “And I'm dating the _star_ of Gusteau's restaurant. I wouldn't exactly say you got the better end of the deal there.”

Sherlock hummed, closing his eyes as he absorbed the touch. “Isn't it wrong, though?” he asked after a moment, knitting his brow. “Me being the star cook, I mean? The face of Gusteau's? I couldn't have done any of what I did without you. And it's _your_ uncle. Your family.”

“It's not wrong,” John argued. “You deserve it, all the attention you're getting and more.”

“But it doesn't feel right. You should get some credit. It's you who made me.”

John's lips twitched into a smile and he leaned down, cupping his cheek before kissing him softly.

“We'll be the face together, then. You and me. Anyone who doesn't like it can go to hell.“

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, recapturing John's lips in another kiss before he had a chance to draw back. And that was the last thing either of them said for a while.

* * *

After Irene Adler's article, Gusteau's fame reached new heights. The days became more stressful as waves of new customers flooded in, but the nights became more rewarding. John stayed over at Sherlock's flat several times a week now, tiring him out in ways his job couldn't even begin to.

Of course, this inevitably led to a meeting Sherlock certainly could have done without. The doorbell rang one Tuesday afternoon, ripping them from their giggly Bond marathon (John's choice; Sherlock suspected a hidden crush beneath his fascination for the franchise, John declared that he had no idea what he was talking about).

Sherlock rolled from the sofa reluctantly. When he opened the door, he instantly felt the urge to shut it again.

“What are you doing here already?”

Mycroft just quirked an eyebrow. “Sherlock.” He turned his head to look past him, giving a wry smile. “And John, what a lovely surprise. I'm sure you don't mind me coming in,” he said, already walking past Sherlock.

“You're early,” Sherlock stated, crossing his arms. Mycroft gave him a look that made it clear that this hadn't been an accident.

“I know,” he said. Then he turned to John, giving him a scrutinising look. John had paused the DVD and was standing up now, looking so at home with his worn shirt and his ruffled hair that Sherlock couldn't help the surge of pride going through him.

“Since my brother neglected to inform me of his... relationship, I figured that I'd have to take matters into my own hands.” Mycroft sighed at Sherlock's roll of his eyes, pointedly looking at John again.

“Yeah, good to see you again, Mr. Holmes,” John said, stepping forward to shake his hand.

“I believe Mycroft is more appropriate now, isn't it?”

“Mycroft,” John repeated, nodding. When Sherlock didn't say anything, he raised his eyebrows and asked, “Are you staying for tea?”

“Don't encourage him,” Sherlock said at the same time as Mycroft replied, “Tea would be lovely, thank you.”

John blinked. “Right.” He gave Sherlock an expectant look, then sighed and went about preparing tea himself.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock demanded to know when John disappeared into the kitchen. “Are you trying to scare him away? Show off your superiority?”

“Nothing of the like, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, shaking his head in disdain at the notion. “I merely wanted to meet John, and since we both know that you were never going to introduce him properly, I imagined that my weekly visit might be a fitting occasion.”

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “You've met John before.”

“Not as your partner.”

Sherlock closed his mouth. “Don't try to scare him off,” he said gruffly, then stalked to the sofa, sighing when Mycroft followed suit.

John soon joined them with the tea. His hand lingered reassuringly on Sherlock's shoulder before he sat in a chair, giving Mycroft a friendly, professional smile. It looked nothing like the ones he had reserved for Sherlock. The thought pleased him immensely.

“So, how long have you two been... going out?” Mycroft asked, for appearance's sake or because he really didn't know, Sherlock couldn't tell. He reached for his tea with a sigh and endured the interrogation.

Mycroft stayed for the length of a rather uncomfortable cup of tea, asking John a few more personal questions than strictly appropriate, but otherwise behaving decently. Sherlock couldn't help but smirk when John retorted with respectful but clear answers, refusing to let him cross the lines he'd set.

Mycroft excused himself shortly after, promising to be in touch soon.

“Sherlock,” he said quietly when he was already out of the door, turning back to regard him. “You seem happy with him. I've never seen you like this with anyone else before.” He looked at him for a long moment, a deep crease between his eyebrows. “I don't have to tell you how I feel about _getting involved_ , but you do know that I only want what's best for you, don't you? I'm... happy for you, if this is what you want.”

Sherlock blinked at the unexpected words. He searched his face for any signs of mockery before nodding once.

“Goodbye, Mycroft,” was all he said in reply, but it lacked its usual sharpness.

He closed the door behind him, shaking the weird feeling that had taken hold of him before looking at John.

“Well.”

“He was... nice,” John tried, shrugging when Sherlock gave him a look. “Considering.”

“Considering he's a massive pain in the arse most of the time? Yes.”

“I was gonna say 'considering that he sent you to me to teach you and now I'm in a relationship with his baby brother', but yeah, that too.”

Sherlock only huffed and John took a step towards him, putting his hands on his hips.

“Now,” he mumbled, kissing Sherlock softly, “stop thinking about him. I wouldn't want that lovely arse of yours in pain.” He teased Sherlock's mouth open, grinning into the kiss when his hands came around his hips and touched on his bum, effectively drawing a gasp from him.

John hummed, squeezing once, then moved his hands up again, resting them inches from his groin.

“John,” Sherlock mumbled, gripping his wrists and moving his hands back. “I thought you wanted to watch James Bond.”

“James Bond can wait,” John growled, gladly following the invitation. “I believe there are more pressing matters at hand.” He bucked his hips, rubbing his thickening cock against Sherlock's through decidedly too many layers of fabric.

“Clothes off,” Sherlock gasped, too impatient for full sentences. “John. Please.”

“Bedroom?” John asked, biting Sherlock's lower lip, and he moaned.

“Yes,” he hissed, “ _now._ ”

“My pleasure,” John mumbled before proceeding to push Sherlock towards the bedroom, where neither of them thought about James Bond for a while.

* * *

“John!”

Sherlock and John both turned around at the outcry to see Sally storming through the kitchen door. “Did you know he was coming?” she demanded to know, her eyebrows drawn together in an anxious line.

“That who was coming?” John asked suspiciously, putting down his knife.

Sally's eyes widened. “You haven't seen him yet? _Shit._  God, John, I'm so sorry.” She shook her head. “It's Jim Moriarty. He's out there, lounging around the dining room. Looked like he was harrassing one of the waiters, but I didn't stop to see. I came straight here.”

John's mouth had dropped open. “Moriarty's here?” he repeated, his voice a rough whisper. Sherlock had never met Moriarty in the flesh, but he understood the reaction. He remembered seeing him in interviews, recalled the hollowness of his eyes, the disturbing singsong of his voice.

“What does he want?” he asked, looking between them. Sally shook her head again. “No idea.” She glanced back at John. “Maybe you should go out there, John.”

“Go out where?” Sherlock turned around to see Greg entering through the back door, taking in their expressions with a frown. “Alright, what happened now?”

“Moriarty's here,” Sally explained, and Greg inhaled sharply.

“What? Why? What the hell does he want?”

“What he always wants, I assume,” John mumbled, worrying his lip. “Chaos. Destruction. The downfall of another legend, all by his hands.”

Nobody scoffed at his dramatic choice of words. Moriarty's ways were known in the industry, after all.

Greg growled. “I'm going out there,” he declared.

“No,” John cut in, shaking his head. “I'm the owner. I'll go.”

They all looked up when the door to the dining room was pushed open and a flushed waiter entered the kitchen.

“Boss,” he said, looking at John with wide eyes. “Jim Moriarty is here. He wants to speak to Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. “To me?” he repeated, frowning at the waiter. He nodded.

“No,” John growled. Sherlock turned to meet his eyes.

“What, no?” he asked. “Are you going to forbid me from seeing him? He's asking for me. Obviously I have to go.”

John scowled at him. “I don't like this,” he said, his fist clenching repeatedly. “That man is bad news. Why is he taking an interest in you?”

“John, everyone and their mother has taken an interest in me since Irene Adler. I suppose that must have caught his attention.”

John blinked up at him. “We're going out together,” he decided, stalking to the door before he could protest. “Come on. The sooner we get this over with, the better.

Moriarty's back was turned to them when they approached him. He gave off the impression of inspecting the wall decoration thoroughly. The sight of him up close wasn't what Sherlock had expected. He'd imagined him bigger somehow, taller, at least. He turned around the moment John opened his mouth to say, “Moriarty. This is an unexpected visit.”

“Oh!” Moriarty exclaimed, stepping forward until he was uncomfortably close. “And isn't it just an honour! You must be so happy to see me, secretly, I mean. Don't worry," he stage-whispered, "I won't tell your boyfriend." His eyes darted to Sherlock. His pupils seemed to grow impossibly darker as he drank him in.

“And you are Sherlock Holmes, aren't you? Such a pleasure to meet you, such a pleasure! What, don't you agree?” He barely gave him a moment to reply, not that Sherlock had planned on doing so.

“No reciprocating words? Well, well. I was just trying to play nice. I don't usually play nice, Mr. Holmes, I've got to tell you. But you've caught my eye, Sherlock, if you want me to be perfectly honest. Can I call you Sherlock? You don't mind, do you?”

He looked faintly amused, not even pretending to wait for an answer. Apparently he had already planned the entire conversation out on his own. “I should thank dear Miss Adler,” he mused, shaking his head from side to side. “It was her article that brought you to my attention, after all. Without her, I wouldn't have looked at this dump of a restaurant twice.” He stepped even closer. “Let me explain something to you, Sherlock. That's why I came, what I'm here for. I'll explain it, since you're new to this game.“

“Game?“ Sherlock repeated, frowning at him. 

“Yes, yes, of course. The game. You think you're rather good at it, don't you? But you've been playing without an opponent.“ Moriarty tutted. “Isn't that so boring? Well, those times are ooover! Time to change the rules.“

Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms. “I see. And you're going to be the one to play the role of that opponent, aren't you?“

Moriarty tutted. “Oh, you're slow for someone in the fast lane.“

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, feeling strangely offended. “Well, you're thin for someone who claims to like food," he retorted without thinking.

Moriarty's eyes narrowed. When he spoke, the singsong quality of his voice had vanished. His tone was darker, deliberately rough. “I don't _like_ food. I love it. I love _evaluating_ it. You know, Sherlock, if I don't love it, I don't s _wallow._ “

He reached out to straighten out Sherlock's shirt and winked. Sherlock swallowed, trying to fight the impulse to step back. John behind him hissed.

“And what I love even more than food is the game. But you know what I love most? Winning. Time to play, Sherlock!”

“What do you mean, play?” Sherlock demanded to know.

“Oh, honey. All that hype around you actually had me thinking that you were a bright one. How utterly disappointing.” Moriarty leaned in, making a show of looking left and right before whispering, “I'm going to come back, and you're going to serve me your so highly acclaimed food, and then we're going to _play._ ”

He took a step back. “I'll be back tomorrow night, and my expectations are so unbelievably high!“ His voice dropped to a flat murmur, a stark contrast to his previous tone. “Pray you don't disappoint me.“

And with that he turned around and left. John was beside Sherlock in a moment, reaching for his arm.

“Jesus,” he hissed, his jaw clenching. “I can't believe he _touched_ you. Are you alright?”

“I'm fine,” Sherlock mumbled, still blinking at the door Moriarty had vanished through. “I- Fine,” he repeated. John's hand came up to his face, his thumb moving over his cheekbone to catch his attention.

“Hey,” he said when Sherlock's eyes flickered down to his. “Come on, back to the kitchen.”

He let himself be guided by a gentle hand on the small of his back. Greg was by their side as soon as they returned, asking what Moriarty had said, but Sherlock didn't really listen. The strange sensation of feeling like he'd been wrapped in cotton wool remained.

“He said he wanted to play a game,” John said, giving him a concerned look. “With Sherlock.”

“What kind of game?” Greg shot him a worried look as well, and suddenly Sherlock grew fidgety under the attention.

“He wants me to cook him something so he can rip it apart and destroy this restaurant,” he said tonelessly, turning away from everyone's gazes to pace back and forth through the kitchen. “That's what he always wanted, isn't it? To destroy Gusteau's. I'm the perfect opportunity. I'm the weakness he can attack.”

“Sherlock,” John said quietly, and Sherlock could tell that he had a deep frown on his face without looking at him. “You can't possibly think that, love.”

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. John had called him that before, several times by now, but never outside the bedroom. He blinked, turning to look at him. John met his gaze with a half-smile.

“You're the reason Gusteau's is in the eye of the public again like it used to be. If anything, you're the strength. It's Moriarty's mistake if he thinks you can't withstand him.”

Sherlock swallowed. “I don't know if I can,” he got out, turning to look around. It was too hot in the kitchen. Too narrow. He needed to _think,_ to work out how he was going to deal with Moriarty. He needed to breathe.

“Sorry,” he said, fumbling around to gather his things. “I need to leave. Prepare.” He vaguely looked in John's direction. “I'll talk to you later.” He left before either of them could stop him from going, not looking back.

He didn't go straight home, instead heading right, away from the city centre. He yearned for solitude. Tourists on crowded streets were the last thing he needed right now.

He ended up by the riverside, settling on a narrow wall away from passersby as he looked out on the Seine. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as the cool air washed over him.

“Running away again, are we?”

“Piss off,” Sherlock muttered, not looking at the rat as he pushed the imaginary door to the kitchen open. He strode through the room, moving his hand over the counter, the cooker, the oven. Everything was in place, all the information where he'd stored it. He turned to the rat.

“What's important when making a Béchamel sauce?” he asked, and it replied without missing a beat.

“Always control the heat. Start with the flour and butter, only add dairy when the substance is thick and light. Stir for a long time until it thickens up and smooths out.”

“Good. What's the right way to flambé something?”

“Add the necessary amount of your preferred alcohol to the dish while it's cooking. Wait for the alcohol to start bubbling, then carefully light it on fire from the edge of the pan. Keep it tilted to prevent injuries.”

And so he went on, asking question after question to reassure himself that nothing had changed. It was all there.

And yet.

Sherlock opened his eyes, finding himself staring at the river in darkness. He realised that his thighs were freezing where they touched the stone beneath him. He slipped from the wall to make his way home.

A hot shower and a fresh pair of pyjamas later he stood in his real kitchen, several pots and pans filled with half-cooked meals and raw ingredients before him.

He sighed. The tightness that sat in his throat still hadn't vanished. He disposed of the unfinished dishes, putting some of the others away. He stood around with no idea what to do or how to get rid of this suffocating feeling when the doorbell rang. His head shot around.

He moved to the door, knowing that it was John before he saw him on the stairs. His heart skipped a painful beat when he appeared, and he realised only then how much he'd missed him, despite having seen him just hours ago. How much he yearned for his touch, the comfort he offered.

“Hey,” John said when he reached the door, giving him a hesitant smile.

“I'm sorry,” Sherlock replied immediately. “For running away.”

“It's okay,” John said, waving his hand. “We managed.”

Sherlock sucked in his lower lip, his conscience nagging him. He shouldn't have left in the middle of dinner rush. He shouldn't have left at all.

John pursed his lips, looking at him with a crease in his forehead. “I worried about you, Sherlock. All night, I was so worried.”

Sherlock swallowed. “I'm fine. I didn't mean to worry you.”

“I know,” John assured him, his hand reaching for his. “But you didn't see your expression there. It's just, I've never seen you like that. Not even in the beginning. So unsure of yourself.”

His thumb moved over his skin. “It's okay that you're worried. It's perfectly normal. Just let me be there for you,” he said, his eyes infinitely soft and tender, and Sherlock melted under their gaze without meaning to. “Let me help.”

He was in John's arms before he knew it, hugging him tightly, feeling his throat contracting.

“I'm glad you came,” he mumbled into his hair, and it felt more meaningful than the words justified. He paused. “I'm not fired, am I?”

John chuckled, running a hand over his back in soothing circles. “No, you're not, you big idiot,” he mumbled. Then he drew back slightly.

“Can I come in?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, pulling him inside. “Please.”

* * *

“So you got scared.”

Sherlock nodded, folding his hands around the cup of tea John had prepared him. Tea always felt more comforting when John had made it.

“Anything I can do to help you?”

“Stay with me,” Sherlock said without thinking, but John's expression only softened.

“Of course I'll stay with you,” he promised, reaching out to cover Sherlock's hand on the table. “Anything else I can do?”

Sherlock hunched his shoulders. “More tea?” he suggested, and John smiled.

“Maybe a cuddle along with it?” he asked, already getting up to prepare a pot.

They settled on the sofa after that. Sherlock buried his face in the crook of John's neck, inhaling deeply until his head was filled with nothing but the scent of him.

John was running a hand through his hair and, as though sensing that Sherlock couldn't talk right now, kept silent.

“I don't know why I'm so worried,” Sherlock mumbled eventually, the words sounding muffled.

“That's Moriarty for you,” John said, idly playing with strands of his hair. “He gets under your skin. It's the only thing he's capable of.”

“I don't like it,” Sherlock said, feeling like a petulant child.

John only drew him closer in response. “I know.” His lips pressed against Sherlock's forehead. He closed his eyes at the sensation, then took a deep breath.

“John, if I fail tomorrow-”

“You won't,” John interrupted, shaking his head. “You're so brilliant. You know how to make anything on the menu by heart, and even if you didn't, I would trust you to get it right.”

“I don't know everything on the menu. There's one thing I've never tried.”

John thought for a moment. “Canard à l'orange,” he said when it hit him, and Sherlock nodded.

“You're worried he's going to order that one.”

“Obviously.”

“And you don't think you can get it right?” The emphasis on _you_ almost made Sherlock smile.

“I'm not sure,” he amended. John hummed.

“Well, there's only one thing for it. We've got to try it, then.”

Sherlock sat up, giving him a disbelieving look. “You want to roast a duck now? This time of the night?”

John shrugged. “If it helps? Of course.”

Sherlock frowned. “I think it would, yes,” he eventually said.

“Good.” John slipped from the sofa, smiling at him. “I'll only be half an hour, alright?”

“Hurry,” Sherlock said, watching him go. Then he got up, cleaning the rest of the kitchen with new energy as he waited.

“Here,” John said when he returned a few minutes later, dropping half a duck on the counter. “It's the best I could find.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Impressive.”

John just smiled. “I have my sources,” he said cryptically. Then he clasped his hands together. “Right. There's really not much about that recipe that could pose a challenge for you. I'm there if you need me.” He raised his eyebrows. “Now and tomorrow. Anytime.”

Sherlock, instead of replying, stepped closer and kissed him. The way their lips seemed to fit together just right still amazed him. The kiss was familiar and comforting and so full of promises that Sherlock's chest hurt, but in a good kind of way. The best he could imagine. He drew back, blinking at John who was also opening his eyes, smiling at him.

“John, I- I think I-”

He faltered, the enormity of the words dawning on him, rendering him momentarily speechless.

Something flashed across John's face and he took Sherlock's hand in his, raising it to his lips to press a kiss to his palm. “It's okay. I know. We can talk later, we have all the time in the world for that. But now we should focus on the duck, before it jumps from that counter and waddles away again.”

Sherlock nodded mutely, following him to the kitchen counter. And then, at a quarter to midnight, they began to cook.

John was cutting the oranges while Sherlock put the duck in the oven to start roasting, helping when he was asked, but leaving Sherlock to take control over what was happening. Sherlock appreciated the gesture. They worked in comfortable silence for the most part after John had slipped away to get changed, talking only about the duck, if at all. While it roasted in the oven they started on the sauce, and John smiled when Sherlock promptly changed up the recipe.

“Red wine vinegar is the better choice,” he announced, and John just nodded along, not bothering to hide his expression. Seeing his smile, so full of confidence in his abilities, worked wonders for Sherlock's nerves.

It was past three in the morning when the dish was finished. They glanced at each other, then at the roasted duck in between the sliced oranges.

“What do you think?”

“It looks good.”

“Try it. Tell me if you got it right.”

Sherlock cut off two small pieces of meat, dipping them into the sauce before holding out one fork, keeping the second for himself. “You too,” he said.

John accepted the fork and they both tasted at the same time, chewing in silence.

“It's fine.” A small smile spread on Sherlock's face. “More than fine, I'd say. It's quite good, isn't it?”

John shook his head, looking at him with a wide grin.

“Oh, you mad man.” He put the fork aside, kissing him square on the mouth. “It's brilliant. Just like you are.”

His arms wrapped around his waist and Sherlock held onto his wrists, keeping them firmly in place. He rested his chin on John's head, looking down at the duck. “I really can't eat this now.”

John chuckled. “No, neither can I. Let's just put it away for now. Maybe ask Mycroft over to try it tomorrow.”

Sherlock snorted and John grinned, obviously pleased by the sound.

“What do you want to do now?” he asked when they'd put the duck away. “I suppose asking you to go to bed is futile.”

Sherlock nodded slowly. He knew that he should rest, his mind at the very least, if not his body.

“I think I'd like to play the violin,” he said. The thought of the instrument in his hands made him feel calmer instantly.

John blinked at him. “It's half past three in the morning. Your neighbours won't mind?”

Sherlock shrugged. “They're used to it.”

“Alright, then.” John got up to move to the living room, settling on the sofa with one of the blankets Sherlock always had laid out for him. “I'm just gonna stay here and listen to you play, if that's alright. I'm a bit knackered.”

“Of course it's alright,” Sherlock said, regarding John for a moment as he made himself comfortable, trying to wrap his brain around the image. He supposed that if he never got used to it, he wouldn't really mind.

He moved to the desk and picked up the instrument. The weight of the violin was comforting in its familiarity. Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling the rhythm of his own heart. He started to play, a soft tune along to his pulse. Soon he switched up the melody, alternating between high and low, fast and slow. John was watching him through half-lidded eyes, and Sherlock moved on to a calming tune, a soft lullaby that he knew would lull him to sleep within minutes.

He played until John was asleep, and then he played more until the strain of the day had faded. He didn't think of yesterday, nor did he worry about tomorrow. For the time being he remained in this sheltered space of in between, with just him and the music and John's soft snores from the sofa.

When he lowered his violin the night had long passed its darkest point. John woke up when he sat down, reaching for him immediately.

“Come here,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep, and Sherlock complied, slipping into his embrace easily. The sofa was narrow, just so supporting both of them sprawled out on it. There wasn't much legroom, but Sherlock didn't need legroom. He needed John, and his comforting touch and familiar smell and the warmth of his arms around him.

He closed his eyes when a sense of exhaustion came over him, claimed him after hours spent on his feet. And so he sat with his arms around him, focusing on nothing but John's even breathing next to him as the night faded to day and the morning light slowly crept through the window.


	4. Dessert: Soufflé au chocolat

John stirred in the early hours of the morning, greeting Sherlock with a sleepy smile as he woke up. For a moment Sherlock pretended that this was a day like any other, that John would pad into the bathroom and return with a cup of tea from the kitchen, and then they'd go to work and cook together and nobody would disturb the blissful routine they'd created with each other.

But today wasn't a day like any other. John did return with a cup of tea for each of them, but he sat on the edge of the sofa as they drank it, not leaning back against Sherlock like he usually did.

They got ready in silence. John squeezed Sherlock's hand before they left the flat and asked, “Ready?”

Sherlock really didn't know. He nodded anyway.

John intertwined their fingers, not letting go of him as they walked to the restaurant.

Greg was already there when they arrived, bustling around the kitchen. He stopped when he saw them come in, his eyes on Sherlock's face. “Alright?” he asked, and Sherlock straightened his back.

“Yes,” he said, squeezing John's hand once more before letting go.

Greg didn't ask about the night before, which Sherlock was grateful for. Not his proudest moment, that. It wouldn't do any good to dwell on it, especially now, with Moriarty's visit imminent.

And that wasn't everything that was going on, after all. There were things to be done, customers to cook for. So Sherlock set his jaw and got to work.

He managed fine until he went into the pantry to fetch a new bottle of vinegar. The evening had progressed without a sign of Moriarty so far, and he knew that it couldn't be long anymore. Not bothering to switch the lights on he let the door fall closed behind him, finding himself surrounded by the half-dark. He looked around without moving.

He'd been in here hundreds of times. He knew the contents of the shelves like the back of his hand. It wasn't even completely dark, enough light fell in from under the door to colour the room in shades of black and white.

And yet the sight made him falter. The sound of his own blood rustling in his ears grew loud enough to overpower every other sensory input. The darkness seemed to overwhelm him, move towards him as the seconds ticked by.

When Sherlock realised that the room moved around him he slowly walked back out of the pantry, turning around to press his back against the heavy steel door after closing it. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the fog to lift. When he opened them again it wasn't because he was feeling better, but because he felt the presence of another person nearby.

John was almost in front of him, giving him a searching look.

The dizziness must have been evident in his expression, because a crease appeared between John's brows. Not good. He didn't need John to worry as well.

“I was going to get pomegranate vinegar,” Sherlock explained in an attempt to distract him.

Looking down, he realised that he'd left the bottle inside. They both stared at his empty hands for a moment.

“Right,” John said, and then there was an insistent hand on his arm, guiding him away from the door. “Come on, sit down.”

“I don't want to sit down,” Sherlock argued, but he let himself be walked to his station without resisting.

“Lean, then,” John ordered, and he complied, sinking back against the kitchen counter. He found himself with a bottle of water in his hands a moment later. John gave him a stern look until he unscrewed the lid and took a sip.

The first touch of water to his lips made him realise how thirsty he was – had he even had anything to drink since that cup of tea that morning? - and he gulped down half the bottle, breathing heavily when he put it down. John nodded once.

“Feeling better?”

“A bit,” Sherlock admitted. “Thank you.”

John continued to look at him. “Sherlock.”

“I'm fine.”

John held up a hand and he fell silent, waiting for him to speak.

“You can't make this a personal thing, with Moriarty and you. You need to look at it like any other encounter between customer and cook, or else it's going to consume you.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together. It _was_ a personal thing. Moriarty was here because of him, and he would have to deal with whatever he decided to throw his way. It was his fame that had lured him in in the first place, so Sherlock had to face him. This game was between Moriarty and him, him alone, so how could it be anything but personal?

The feeling of John's hand closing around his ripped Sherlock from his thoughts.

He glanced at his eyes and opened his mouth as if to speak, then halted. John was looking back at him with such softness and affection that his heart caught in his throat.

John wouldn't leave him to deal with it on his own. 

Maybe he wasn't entirely alone in this, after all.

“You're fine,” John said, and Sherlock nodded.

He was alright. They were alright.

They both looked up when Mrs Hudson hurried into the kitchen. “John,” she said, clutching her chest, and Sherlock's stomach sank. “He's here.“

John nodded, then turned to Sherlock again.

“Alright?“ he asked quietly. Their eyes locked, and several unspoken assurances passed between them. John stepped closer, raising a hand to cup his cheek. Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling nothing but the touch of John's skin and the throbbing of his own heart. “Whatever you need, yeah? Whatever it is, anything. I'll help you. We can do this.“

“Together,“ Sherlock said, putting his hand over John's.

John nodded, his jaw set in determination. “Together.“

Sherlock nodded as well and turned around. He faltered in his steps when he saw all his colleagues standing behind him.

“Sherlock,” Greg said, taking a step forward. “Before you go out there.” He cleared his throat. “We just wanted to let you know, we're a family here. You may be the newest addition, but you're one of us now. You're important to John, and even if you weren't, you're a good kid. So we're in this with you.“

Molly smiled shyly. “If we go down, we go down together, don't we?“

Sherlock looked at her. He swallowed around the sudden dryness in his throat.

“I... suppose,” he said, blinking repeatedly. His eyes fell on Sally, who regarded him with her arms crossed. He raised an eyebrow, and the corner of her lip twitched.

“Moriarty's a bastard,” she declared, drawing her shoulders up. “You can be one too, but you're our bastard.”

That did it. Sherlock smiled without meaning to, and the tension broke. “Thank you,” he said, finding that he meant it. “I... appreciate your support.”

“Come on,” John said beside him, smiling up at Sherlock. “Best not let him wait too long.”

The decision that Sherlock would be the one to go out and take his order had been clear. Moriarty would insist on speaking to him anyway, so he might as well get it out of the way.

Sherlock squared his shoulders. He nodded at John, who only returned the look with a small smile. Then he pushed the door open.

Other customers looked up as he strode into the dining room with a display of confidence he didn't feel, but his eyes were fixed on Moriarty.

He was already awaiting him, looking delighted at his appearance.

“Good evening,” Sherlock said evenly, quirking an eyebrow. “What can I bring you today?”

“Sherlock! My, this is an honour, isn't it? Do you meet all of your customers personally?” He leaned in, smiling conspiratorially. “No, I thought so. I knew we had a special something, you and I.”

He raised a hand to Sherlock's shirt, flattening a crease that wasn't there. Sherlock, resisting the urge to draw back, kept still and waited. He was aware of what Moriarty was doing. They both knew that John was watching through the kitchen door.

“Do you need more time to decide?” he asked, pointedly ignoring everything he'd said. Moriarty tutted, but leaned back in his seat.

“No!” he announced, putting the menu down. “No, I know what I came for.” His thin lips stretched into a twisted smile. “I'd like to order... some perspective.“

Sherlock frowned, but kept his face from showing any other signs of his confusion. “I'm afraid I don't understand.“

Moriarty threw his head back and laughed. Sherlock blinked repeatedly as he seemingly writhed in amusement, taking his time until he spoke again.

“Well,” he sighed, and suddenly his eyes were sharp and focused on Sherlock's face like nothing had happened at all. "Since you seem to be all out of perspective, as is everyone else in this country - we'll make a deal, shall we? You provide the food, I'll provide the perspective.”

Sherlock swallowed. “Do you have a special wish?” he asked, glad that his voice didn't waver.

Moriarty tapped a finger against his lips. “I'll try whatever you dare to serve me. Your choice, Sherlock. Hit me... with your best shot.“

His tongue darted out lewdly. The glint in his dark eyes was all the proof Sherlock needed that the innuendo had been planned. He gave a brief nod, then turned and left. He felt his repulsive gaze on him all the way to the kitchen.

“What the hell was that?” John hissed as soon as the door closed behind him, his fists clenching at his side.

Sherlock closed his eyes before quickly recounting what had transpired between them. John looked utterly disgusted, seemingly more appalled by the sexual allusion than his threatening order.

“John,” Sherlock said, shaking his head urgently. “Don't you see what he's doing? He's clever, so clever. He took away the only base we have to satisfy his wishes, which is knowing what he wants to order. No matter what we bring him, there's a good chance he won't like it. He's doing this on purpose. This is the game he's playing.”

“Then we're just going to play along and hope for the best.” John licked his lips. “This was always going to be a gamble. He'd never give us a fair chance, he's James Moriarty.”

Sherlock exhaled in frustration. “But how can I even attempt to win if I don't know the rules we're playing by?” He turned around, feeling the urge to pace, to move as a wave of anxiety washed over him.

He took a deep breath and stopped dead in his tracks, unable to do anything else but close his eyes.

As he'd expected, the rat was already waiting.

“So you've given up, have you?“ Mycroft's voice asked. Not even pitying, just clinical.

“I haven't given up. I'm being realistic. No need to pretend that this will work out just fine. I pretend enough as it is.“ He huffed, a humourless sound. “I even pretend you're there.“

“You don't have to pretend that. We're there for you, always, Sherlock.“

He turned around at the words. It was John's voice that had spoken them, and this time, he wasn't presented with a rat. It was John.

“Even me.“ He turned again to see Mycroft standing behind him, wearing an unreadable expression he'd seen on his face countless times. “You must know that, little brother.“

Sherlock took a deep breath. “I do know that,” he said, and realised that it was true. That it had always been true, even if he'd refused to see it. “I know that,” he repeated.

Then he opened his eyes, blindly reaching for John's hand.

“We can try,” he said, and John nodded, determination in his features.

“We will,” he confirmed.

Sherlock inhaled deeply one more time, then let go of his hand to reach for a menu. “What are we going to serve him?”

They both skimmed the menu. “No duck,” John decided. “If he didn't specifically ask for it, he'll take the long preparation time as a reason to complain.”

Sherlock nodded. Then he pointed at another dish, raising his eyebrows in question.

John leaned in to read. “Coq au vin? Cock with wine, really?” Sherlock just lifted his shoulders, and the corner of John's mouth went up.

“Well, two can play that game, I suppose. At the very least he'll appreciate the pun.”

“That's what I'm hoping for.”

“Alright, then.” He clasped his hands together. “Let's get to work.”

Falling back into their cooking routine was easy by now. It came to Sherlock like air, the process of creating a dish with John by his side as plain and simple as breathing.

While the rest of the team took care of the other orders John was beside Sherlock every step of the way, confirming his choices when it was needed, jumping in to assist when necessary without having to be asked.

The final product looked stunning, even for Gusteau's standards. Each of their colleagues tried the sauce, nodding their approval before Sherlock took the plate in his hands.

Moriarty was checking his watch as Sherlock carried the dish over to his table, but he knew that it was a deliberate move.

“Coq au vin,” he announced, mockingly bowing his head. Moriarty's eyes lit up and the corner of his mouth stretched in appreciation. “Bon appétit.”

Moriarty nodded. Sherlock didn't stay to watch him examine the food, instead turning to head for the kitchen in quick strides. His heart beat fast as the door fell closed behind him, and his carefully sustained posture fell.

He slid to the round window immediately, glancing outside. John was next to him in a second.

“What's he doing?”

“Inspecting the food,” Sherlock mumbled, narrowing his eyes as Moriarty probed and nudged at the meat.

A sigh left John's lips. “Yeah, he does that,” he said. “Bloody irritating. If he could just get on with it...”

Sherlock nodded absently, his eyes trained on the hands taking the dish apart. Moriarty swept a piece of meat through the sauce, and then, finally, raised the fork to his mouth. His lips closed around it and he chewed slowly, making a show of analysing the taste as if he knew exactly that he was being watched.

Then Moriarty dropped the fork. Sherlock blinked, watching him dab his mouth with his napkin. Letting it fall onto his plate, he got up. His gaze sought the door to the kitchen, and Sherlock's breath hitched as their eyes met through the window. Moriarty held his gaze for a long, extensive moment and his lips stretched into a wide, toothless smile. Then he turned on the spot and left.

Sherlock let out a deep breath.

“What is it?” John asked, a hand sneaking onto the small of his back as he attempted to get a look. “What's he doing?”

“He just... left.”

John drew back, staring at him. “He what?”

“He's gone. He smiled at me, and then he went for the door.”

He turned his head, meeting John's eyes. “He's gone,” he repeated, John's face mirroring his disbelief.

“But... does that mean we won his stupid game?”

“I have no idea,” Sherlock breathed out.

John regarded him for a long moment. “Well... either way, it's over,” he said, and a smile took over his face. “You did it, Sherlock. I knew that you could. That you _would._ ”

Instead of replying Sherlock grabbed his face and pulled him in for a kiss. He teased John's lips open without much finesse, the urge to get closer overwhelming him. When John made a desperate sound he slowed down, breaking the kiss reluctantly. John would have none of it.

“Oh no, I'm not done yet,” he growled, and then he covered his face in kisses until Sherlock could hardly breathe. Eventually John drew back, but not before giving him one last lingering kiss, whispering a promise of _more, later_ onto his lips.

Sherlock, well aware that John kept his promises, barely made it through the remainder of the shift, John's eyes on his back making his neck prickle every time he caught him looking.

They just so made it through the door before John was all over him, pressing him against the wall as he devoured his mouth. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, groaning into him. The sound only seemed to turn John on more.

“Bedroom,” he growled, and Sherlock nodded urgently. They stumbled rather than walked there, exchanging kisses as they tried to get rid of clothes and shoes.

John pushed Sherlock onto the mattress as soon as he was out of his shirt, climbing over him a second later. They looked at each other for a moment, both of their chests heaving, and then they reached for each other with a new kind of urgency, a subtle need for closeness, the desire to hold and be held in return.

Sherlock moved on from John's mouth to let his lips travel over his jaw, nibbling on him, burying his face in the juncture between neck and shoulder.

“John,” he said, muffled by his skin, and John drew back to get a look at him.

"Yeah?"

“Thank you,” Sherlock mumbled, his hand coming up to John's shoulder. “For everything. But especially today. I couldn't have done it without you.”

“Yes, you could,” John said, but gave him a brilliant smile. “I know you could, but I'm glad that I could help. You're brilliant, I always knew that. From the first time we cooked together.”

Sherlock smiled. “The Ratatouille.” John nodded and he hummed, dwelling on the memory. “You called me a bright boy,” he remembered, and John giggled. This time Sherlock was sure that it was the most wonderful sound he had ever heard, would ever hear again. Nobody else could make a sound like that. It was John's.

“You are,” John said, capturing his attention again. His hand came up to his cheek as he caught Sherlock's lips between his in a heart-stoppingly tender kiss.

“You're my bright boy.” He drew back, moving his thumb over his cheekbone as he gazed at his face. “My cooking genius.” His lips quirked into a smile. “And I love you, Sherlock. Christ, how I love you.”

Sherlock felt his heart skip a beat. He stared at him, blinking wordlessly as the weight of the words hit him with full force. When the silence caught up with him he tried to speak, tried to articulate himself in any way because conveying what he was thinking was _essential,_ but words eluded him.

“I'm- you-”

“Shh,” John mumbled, silencing him with a gentle finger to his lips. He traced his lower lip before catching his chin in his hand, handling him with so much gentleness that Sherlock found it hard to breathe.

“It's okay. I love you, I do. I just needed to say that. I didn't mean to startle you." He leaned down, brushing their lips together so softly that it felt like pure agony. “But it's true. And you don't have to say it back, but I wanted you to know.”

“But I want to,” Sherlock said as John traced the crease on his forehead with a finger. “I want to say it. I love you too, John. Of _course_ I love you.”

John looked at him for a long, breathless moment, and then their mouths were on each other and they were kissing again.

“Oh god,” Sherlock moaned when John ground his hips against his, his erection brushing Sherlock's in the process. Having already taken off his trousers, John's pants were the only thing separating him from his cock. “Off,” he muttered, clawing at the fabric.

“You first,” John mumbled, his hands moving over his pelves. Sherlock lifted his hips and John pulled his trousers and pants down in one fluid move, removing them efficiently before taking care of his own pants.

The first contact of their cocks to each other as he lowered himself again was electrifying. They both groaned at the same time, caught up in the sensation.

“Lube,” Sherlock remembered as John thrust against him once, blindly reaching for the bedside table.

“Yeah,” John breathed out, fumbling with the bottle when Sherlock pushed it into his hands.

The touch of his slick hands to Sherlock's cock left him gasping. John moved up and down, aiming to coat him, not to pleasure. Then he gave himself a quick tug, groaning again at the pressure of his own hand.

Sherlock reached out, closing his hand around both their cocks. John, trapped between them, fumbled to add pressure. Their fingers connected as they found a rhythm, and for a while they just lost themselves in the sensation, their closeness.

Sherlock stretched his head up and John complied readily, licking into his mouth so lewdly that a shiver ran down Sherlock's spine. They kept it up until kissing became too much of a challenge, then settled for smearing their mouths together, letting their breath mingle.

“Like that?” John mumbled breathily when Sherlock moaned at a delicious twist of his wrist, and Sherlock nodded fervently.

He faltered in his movements when John moved over the slit at the tip of his cock, his breath hitching at the sensation. Then John withdrew his hand, chuckling as Sherlock, momentarily at a loss, immediately reached for it again.

“Hold on,” he said, kissing Sherlock's neck at the spot he knew would leave him shivering before going lower. “I've wanted to do this all night,” he mumbled, nuzzling the skin around Sherlock's twitching cock. “You're so brilliant. You blow me away.”

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation. He wouldn't take long. The thought of John taking him into his mouth alone had him clutching the sheets.

He moaned helplessly as his lips closed around his cock and he began to suck relentlessly.

“John,” he pleaded, not knowing what he was asking for. John seemed to understand, though. He bobbed his head, taking in as much of him as he could before his gag reflex set in and he eased off, making up for the loss of warm heat with increased suction. Sherlock hissed, his knee shifting around uselessly as John reduced him to a quivering mess.

“John, you're so-” he got out before cutting himself of with a sharp yelp as John tugged on his balls, never finding an ending to that sentence.

Words eluded him altogether as he felt the buzzing heat pooling in his stomach, building up to overwhelm him. All but one word.

“John,” Sherlock gasped out in warning and John pulled off, kissing the inside of his thigh before crawling up his body, wrapping a hand around him. His eyes were on Sherlock's face as he mumbled, “It's okay, let go, I'll take care of you.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and his back arched as pleasure ripped through him. He was dimly aware of making loud noises, of his fingers digging into John's skin, his nails leaving marks on his back, but he needed to be closer, needed to _feel_ John as his orgasm crashed over him, taking the air out of him momentarily.

When he came back to himself, blinking up at John, he was staring down at him, looking as breathless as Sherlock felt.

“You're so bloody gorgeous,” he said, his voice shaking, and Sherlock wrapped both his legs around him in response, bucking his hips to shift his softening cock closer to John's.

“I love you,” he said because it was true, because he could do that, and then reached for John's erection. The tip of his cock was wet with copious amounts of pre-come and Sherlock had to restrain himself from stoping to taste. He could tell that John was close. There was enough time for cataloguing later, all the time in the world.

“You too,” John got out, his voice breathy, and Sherlock felt himself smiling, knowing what the sound meant.

He sped up his rhythm as he stroked him, moving his left hand over his back, holding him close with his legs around him. John groaned, dropping his head.

“I love you,” he mumbled into his hair, the words muffled and yet perfectly clear in Sherlock's mind. “Love you, love you, love you,” he chanted, and it was with those words on his lips that he spilled between them.

Sherlock continued to run a hand over his back. John collapsed on top of him when the last spurt painted Sherlock's stomach, disregarding the mess between them entirely. Sherlock's fingers came up to John's hair, playing with the soft strands until his pulse had calmed down. He could make out John's very own smell in the heavy air, heightened by their activities.

When the stickiness on their stomachs became too uncomfortable John shifted, moving to his side. Sherlock reached for a packet of tissues and cleaned them up provisionarily before rolling onto his side as well.

“That was nice,” he said, and John laughed. Sherlock wriggled closer in an attempt to absorb the sound, keep it inside him and make it his very own.

“Understatement,” John mumbled, raising a hand to comb through his unruly hair. They were so close that Sherlock could observe every one of his lashes, his own reflection in his bright eyes, every line decorating his face.

John's hand slipped out of his hair and he rested it on his shoulder, squeezing once to catch his attention. Sherlock's lips twitched. John knew him so well, knew that he sometimes stared at him for minutes on end, trying to memorise his features.

“You did so well today,” John said, nudging his nose with his. “Whatever happens now, whatever he's got planned, that's what counts, alright?”

Sherlock nodded, forestalling any further words by sealing their lips together.

He couldn't recall settling in to fall asleep, but when he opened his eyes, John was watching him.

“Are you awake?” he asked, and Sherlock nodded, stretching before blinking up at him sleepily.

“Why are _you?_ ” he mumbled in return, turning to his side.

“I have a surprise for you.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows, instantly feeling more awake.

“What is it?” he asked, sitting up. A smile crept on his face. “Is it related to anything we've done earlier?”

John giggled at that, shaking his head. “Not quite. I think you'll still like it, though.”

Sherlock hummed, giving him a considering look. “Then I suppose it has something to do with the heavenly smell of chocolate in the air?”

John grinned at him. Instead of replying he asked, “How do you feel about a soufflé?”

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. “Where did you get a soufflé at this time of the night?”

“I made it, genius.”

Sherlock looked at him in bewilderment. “How the hell did you manage to do that without waking me?”

John chuckled, reaching out to move his finger up and down Sherlock's bare arm. “Well, I know how you get after sex. You're kind of... dead to the world, once you fall asleep. Not that I mind, though. Seems like I'm very good at tiring you out.”

Sherlock leaned in, kissing the smug smile off his face. “I have to concede it,” he mumbled, only breaking the contact when John panted into his mouth. “But it seems that _I'm_ very good at leaving you breathless.”

“You are,” John mumbled, kissing him again before drawing back. “Come on. Neither of us had dinner and I know you're hungry, even if you won't admit it.” He wriggled his fingers and Sherlock took his hand, letting himself be pulled up.

“What's for dessert?” he asked cheekily, earning himself an elbow into his side.

“I'll show you when we're done eating,” John said, handing him his dressing gown with a wink. Sherlock huffed, but put it on anyway.

“We'll see about that,” he mumbled, following John into the kitchen with a smile.

* * *

“If that isn't the star of this establishment!” Greg called out when Sherlock entered the kitchen a step behind John. His smirk took up most of his face as he said, “Morning, sunshines! You two done celebrating?”

Sherlock only smirked in return, giving John a glance from the side. John raised his eyebrows.

“I thought we had an agreement not to talk about our sex lives,” he remarked dryly, and Greg held up his hands.

“Alright, yeah. No details.” When he lowered his hands, his smile turned genuine. “You deserved it, though. You did brilliantly yesterday. Wonder what Moriarty will say to _that._ ”

“Oh, don't jinx it,” John mumbled, sobering at his words. “You know he has a history of butchering restaurants. _Good_ restaurants. I don't believe for a second that they all really served him bad meals. It's just his thing, once he's got his eye on something...”

“Oh, it's gonna be fine,” Greg said with a wink. “What's the worst he could do, a bad review? I think we'd live, after the buzz Irene Adler created around us.”

“Yeah, probably,” John admitted. Sherlock nodded when he glanced at him, but remained quiet.

They left the topic be after that, neither of them forgetting about the issue, but rather carefully talking around it. Molly soon joined them and they chattered on as they worked, interrupted only when the phone rang faintly from the office at one point. John, hands sticky with mango juice, looked at Greg.

“Could you?”

“I'll get it,” Greg said, jogging into the office. Sherlock paid no attention to him, too focused on his salmon fillet to care. He looked up, however, when Greg burst back into the kitchen minutes later, looking paler than Sherlock had ever seen him.

“John,” he gasped out.

John dropped his knife at the sight of his face. “What is it? What happened?”

“It's Moriarty.” Greg clutched the phone to his chest, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed with difficulty. “He's been admitted to hospital. Suspected salmonella infection.”

The air seemed to have been sucked out of the room. Greg looked at them as if in trance, and there was a beat of absolute silence as everyone just stared back at him.

“What?” John asked, the first to find his voice again, sounding strangled. “This can't be,” he said tonelessly. “He must have gotten it elsewhere. It's not from here.”

Sherlock's stomach sank as the realisation hit him. He took a step forward and John looked at him pleadingly, shaking his head. “He hardly even ate anything, did he? That would never have been enough to make him ill!”

“No,” Sherlock confirmed, holding his gaze. “And yet, what a peculiar coincidence that he became sick hours after visiting here.”

John just stared at him. The colour seemed to drain from his face as he caught on. “You're saying that he planned this,” he said. “That this was what he was going to do all along? That no matter what we served him, he would drag us through the mud afterwards by doing _this?_ ”

Sherlock swallowed, bile rising in his throat at having been tricked so thoroughly. He'd been too distracted by Moriarty's talking and his innuendo to notice what was really going on, just as he'd been supposed to.

“It wasn't about playing fair. It never was. He just wanted to win the game, in whatever way.” He closed his eyes, shaking his head in disgust at his lack of understanding. “Stupid. So stupid. I should have seen it coming. I should have known.”

“How could you possibly have known that he was going to poison himself?” John demanded to know. Sherlock opened his eyes to look at him.

John was seeking his gaze. His eyes were bright with anger, but there was no reproach in them. “It's not your fault, Sherlock,” he insisted, stepping closer. “None of us could have anticipated something as- as _sick_ as that.”

“But it's so stupid,” Greg barked, throwing his hands up when they turned their heads. “If we get an inspection, they'll find nothing!”

“They don't need to,” Sherlock said tonelessly. “Once the idea's planted in people's heads, it's there. He doesn't need to attack us. Only our reputation.”

Greg opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. “Christ,” he eventually got out. Molly quietly reached out for him, still shocked into silence. Her hand was shaking around his wrist.

Sherlock caught John's gaze and they both looked at each other. They didn't speak, because neither of them knew what to say. What _could_ possibly be said?

They made it through to the end of their shift, but Sherlock couldn't recall how afterwards. Everyone worked on autopilot, a terrible silence laying over them as the minutes dragged on.

John went home with Sherlock, letting himself slump into a chair as soon as he was through the door. Sherlock quietly followed him to the living room, standing a few feet away.

John was staring into space, blinking slowly. “Oh my god,” he finally said, and all the weight of the day's news seemed to hang on those three words. He raised his gaze, and the look in his eyes betrayed his calm demeanour. “Oh god, what are we going to do now?”

Sherlock swallowed, more helpless than he'd ever been. He'd turned the situation over and over in his head all day. His mind still came up blank.

“I don't know,” he said into the quiet, and the confession was what made John crumble. He closed his eyes, his head falling down in defeat. Sherlock stepped closer, pulling him close. John's head came to rest on his belly. A hand wrapped around his thigh, looking for support, and Sherlock let his own rest on his shoulders, just holding on. The minutes ticked away until John pulled back, running a hand over his face.

“You should sit down,” he mumbled wearily, eyes a hundred miles away.

Sherlock crouched down, lowering himself next to the chair. He kicked off his shoes, then did the same for John, who didn't seem to have realised that he was still wearing them.

“I love you,” Sherlock said, because it was the only thing he could. John's eyes fell on his face.

They reached for each other at the same time, intertwining their hands. Sherlock held on to John as the weight of the situation pulled them down and there was nothing to do but let the fears about their future eat away at them.

He didn't let go, couldn't if he'd tried. He held his hand when the newspapers printed the story on the front page the next day. He held his hand when the public health department came, starting an investigation, closing the restaurant for the time being. He held his hand when the results came back, negative as expected, but the costumers didn't.

He held his hand when they got into the red, and he held his hand when, hardly a month later, the doors to Gusteau's closed for the very last time.

Looking back was futile. Moriarty had played the game, but he hadn't played by the rules. It didn't matter that Gusteau's had been proven clean. Once a reputation was ruined in the eyes of the public, it was ruined. Nobody cared about the facts as long as there was gossip; game over.

Sherlock squeezed John's hand and they turned their backs on the achingly familiar building, walking away from the restaurant in silence.

* * *

_Thirteen months later_

“I need two more plates of lasagna, pronto!”

“Yes, ma'am!” Greg called towards Sally, balancing an impressive number of orders on his arms. “On my way! Oi, you two!” he said as he passed by Sherlock and John, “No groping in the kitchen, I thought we had a rule!”

Neither of them graced him with a reply. John was too focused on pressing Sherlock against the kitchen counter, reaching behind him to slide a hand over his bum. Sherlock was too busy sucking on John's tongue with his arms slung around his neck to care.

“He should know by now that I've never been one to follow the rules,” he muttered against John's lips when they parted for air, staying close. John grinned into the kiss.

“I know. Just one of the reasons why I love you.”

Sherlock kissed him again instead of replying, and in the end John had to unwrap his arms from himself, lest the food got cold.

“John!” Sherlock called after him when he was already halfway out the door, balancing several plates at once. 

He turned around. “Yes, love?”

“Love you, too.”

John flashed him a brilliant grin. “I know. But you can show me later just how much you do in case I forget, chef.” He winked and left for the dining room, and Sherlock smiled, both at the promise and the way he'd addressed him.

He still wasn't used to actually being able to call himself a chef, though John never let him forget that he could. He seemed so incredibly proud of him, although Sherlock could never quite determine which title of his he was prouder of.

“This is my boyfriend Sherlock. He's a chef. He's brilliant.”

“Have you met my partner, Sherlock Holmes? Yeah, business partner and romantic partner. We're both chefs.”

“Sherlock, come say hi! Yeah, we're together. He's a chef too, you know.”

He never seemed to tire of telling the world what he was to him. And Sherlock never wanted him to. He smiled as he focused his attention on the Crème brûlée he was making, John ever-present at the back of his mind. The noise level from the dining room reached him through the door, accompanying the sounds of his utensils as he worked.

This was their life now. Always busy, often stressful, and never, ever, boring.

Ultimately, he reminisced, Moriarty had lost the game he'd been so eager to play, even if he did not see it that way. Because they may have lost Gusteau's, but they'd found something else, something better. Something that was _theirs._

Of course the months following the closing had been rough, on both of them. John had sunk into his resentment for Moriarty, and Sherlock, unable to stop putting the blame for what had happened on himself, had feared that he'd lose what he had with John as well under the strain.

But they were too strong for that to happen, as the months to come had proven. Looking back, Sherlock shook his head at the ludicrous notion.

He should have known that John would refuse to let himself be beaten by a man like Moriarty. He had lost everything else, yes, but he hadn't lost his resilience, and he hadn't lost Sherlock.

The idea had come up gradually, with neither of them remembering who had said it out loud first.

“We'd need money, though,” John had mused as they'd lain on the sofa together. Sherlock had traced the crease in his forehead with his finger.

“Yes,” he'd agreed, and then rolled away to pick up his phone.

Mycroft had listened in silence as they'd presented him their plans. They'd even gone as far as showing him a charming location, close to the Seine, built in beautiful, traditional style. It was a long shot, but upon seeing the sign in the window they'd both felt that it should be _theirs_.

“You know I will get the money anyway once I'm 25,” Sherlock had argued. “I can't think of a better way to spend it, and I'm absolutely sure that this is what I want to do. We will get this right. _I_ will get this right.” He'd swallowed, steadily looking into his brother's eyes. “Please, Mycroft. Trust me on this.”

Mycroft had regarded them for moment longer. Then he had stood up.

“I've put my trust in Gusteau's before,” he'd said, turning his gaze to John. John had squared his shoulders, awaiting his answer. Mycroft had regarded him for a moment longer before his voice had softened and he'd continued, “Now I'm putting it in John Watson. And in you, brother mine.”

They'd looked at each other for a moment, a tentative smile playing on their lips.

“Thank you,” Sherlock had said eventually, nodding once. Then John had captured his lips in a kiss, and their plans had been sealed.

Four months now. Four months since their opening, and _Ratatouille_ was buzzing with customers and dinner rushes and life.

They weren't Gusteau's nephew and Mycroft Holmes' brother anymore. They were John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, owners of their very own restaurant in a side street of Paris, partners in every sense of the word.

Things couldn't have turned out better for them.

“Sherlock, how's the Crème brûlée doing?” John called out as he reentered the kitchen. He raised his eyebrows when he caught Sherlock's gaze. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, giving him a wide smile. “I was just thinking about you, and how good this is. What we have.” He stepped closer to John, teasing him with the hint of a kiss before drawing back, smirking. “And now I'm thinking about what I want to do to you as soon as we get home.”

John growled. “You're not playing fair,” he accused, yet drew him closer by the waist. “We still have five hours ahead of us.”

Sherlock hummed. “Just something for you to look forward to.”

John swatted his bum and he chuckled. Then he leaned in for a proper kiss.

“Go,” he instructed, waving towards the door. “I'll take the desserts out.” He pressed another kiss to John's lips before fetching the plates, following him out into the dining room.

It was a beautiful day in Paris. The sun shone through the windows, breaking on the wine glasses of their customers. The air was filled with busy chatter and the clinking of cutlery and plates. Outside, the sign of _Ratatouille_ swung softly in the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If there's anything you'd like to say, comments make me very very happy :)


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